£  Stories  Editors  BdyandPy 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE  STORIES  EDITORS  BUY  AND  WHY 


THE 

STORIES  EDITORS 

BUY  AND  WHY 


COMPILED  BY 


JEAN    WICK 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  Sz  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  IQ2I 
By  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


PRESS  OF  OEO.    H.    CLLfC  CO.  (JNC.)   •06T0M 


3573 


To  Magazine  Editors 

Who 

through  constructive  helpfulness 

and  creative  vision 

are  helping  authors  to  make 

the  American  short  story 

unique  in  artistry  and  literary  merit. 


CONTENTS 


Prefatory    Note 

The  Week-end  Guest.     By  Marie  Van  Vorst 
(From  Ainslee's  Magazine) 

The    Terrible    Charge    Against    Jeff    Potter 
By  Samuel  A.  Derieux       .... 
(From   The  American  Magazine) 

"A  Source  of  Irritation."     By  Stacy  Aumonier 
(From  The  Century  Magazine) 

"Momma."     By  Rupert  Hughes       ... 
(From  Collier's,  The  National  Weekly) 

Back  Pay.     By  Fannie  Hurst  .... 
(From   Cosmopolitan  Alagazine) 

"Cab,  Sir?"     By  Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 
(From  Everybody's  Magazine) 


PAGE 

ix 


The  Taking  of  Billy  Rand.     By  Gordon  Young 

(From  Short  Stories) 

According  to  Ruskin.     By  Harriet  Welles     . 
(From  The  IVoman's  Home  Companion) 

The  Crystal  Flask.    By  Paul  Rosenwey 
(From  Young's  Magazine) 


27 

53 

71 

99 

139 
169 


You've  Got  to  be  Selfish.     By  Edna  Ferber  . 
(From  McClure's  Magazine) 

"Clothes  Make  the  Man."     By  Booth  Tarkington     193 
(From  Metropolitan  Magazine) 

The    Bell  of   Saint  Gregoire.     By   Agnes   Ross 

White 

(From   The  People's  Home  Journal) 

The  Evening  Rice.     By  Achmed  Abdullah     . 
(From  Pictorial  Review) 


223 


239 
259 
279 
293 


Why  the  Editors  Buy 305 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

During  the  past  twenty  years  the  short  story  has  come 
to  occupy  a  distinct  place  in  American  letters.  While  it 
must  perhaps  be  granted  that  we  are  not  pre-eminent 
in  the  novel  or  the  essay,  we  may  quite  fairly  pride  our- 
selves upon  the  high  achievement  of  our  authors  in  short 
story  writing.  American  magazines  (and  this  is  said  in 
no  spirit  of  braggadocio)  today  carry  more  and  better 
short  stories  than  do  the  magazines  of  any  other  coun- 
try. In  addition  it  should  be  taken  into  consideration 
that  we  in  America  publish  a  greater  number  of  periodi- 
cals devoted  either  wholly  or  in  part  to  fiction  than  is 
the  custom  elsewhere.  Thus  automatically  the  would-be 
short  story  writer  is  given  opportunity  and  encourage- 
ment, two  powerful  factors  in  all  creative  endeavor.  Suc- 
cess in  short  story  writing  means  both  fame  and  pecuniary 
reward.  It  is  professionally  worth  while  both  from  the 
artistic  and  the  financial  points  of  view. 

To  the  American  editor  should  be  given  much  of  the 
credit  for  this  development  in  the  short  story.  A  story, 
no  matter  how  vital  or  well  written,  carries  no  real  weight 
until  it  is  in  print.  The  printed  page  gives  it  perma- 
nency; through  print  it  reaches  the  multitude.  The  editor, 
at  his  or  her  desk,  has  final  say  as  to  what  shall  or  shall 
not  go  into  the  pages  of  his  or  her  magazine.  There  are 
often  outside  factors  that  shape  the  magazine's  editorial 
and  fiction  policy.  But  editors  are  sincere  in  desiring 
to  give  their  readers  the  best  stories  they  can  procure  of  the 
kind  they  are  ready  to  publish. 

But  they  do  a  great  deal  more  than  just  select 
from  the  mass  of  material  that  is  submitted  to  them. 
They  go  out  after  the  type  of  stories  they  want.  They 
see  the  men  and  women  who  can  write  and  personally 
confer  with  them,  suggesting  new  things  to  write  about, 


X  PREFATORY   NOTE 

new  trends  in  thought,  new  angles  of  approach,  new 
methods  of  handling.  To  George  Horace  Lorimer  cer- 
tainly should  go  much  of  the  credit  for  the  evolution  of 
the  American  business  story;  a  chance  remark  of  Ray 
Long's  at  editorial  conference  brought  the  first  Pell  Street 
tales  into  existence;  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  John 
M.  Siddall  with  his  search  for  clean-cut  Americanism  has 
had  much  to  do  with  the  growing  prominence  and  popu- 
larity of  American  small  town  portrayal  which  popularity 
has  in  turn  profoundly  affected  the  development  of  the 
American  novel;  to  Perriton  Maxwell  should  be  given  the 
honor  of  having  been  the  first  to  publish  stories  of  Jewish 
life  in  one  of  our  leading  monthlies.  Not  only  do  the  edi- 
tors shape  and  mould  the  literary  taste  of  their  readers 
but  they  have  and  do  actually  create  new  forms  of  literary 
output. 

The  technique  of  the  American  short  story  is  more  or 
less  fixed  and  numerous  textbooks  have  been  compiled 
thereon.  But  technique  Is  not  a  rigid  matter.  The  Im- 
portance of  the  subject  matter  or  sheer  artistry  can  often 
"put  over"  a  story  that  defies  every  one  of  the  traditional 
or  accepted  rules.  Too,  different  editors  and  diff'erent 
magazines  have  their  own  Ideas  on  technique.  Therefore, 
for  any  one  who  would  write  it  is  best  to  study  and 
analyze  carefully  the  pages  of  the  various  magazines. 

To  succeed  In  the  short  story  field  the  writer  needs  not 
only  to  know  how  to  write  but  where  to  sell.  To  get 
before  the  short  story  reading  public  It  is  vital  not  only 
to  have  a  story  to  tell  and  to  know  how  to  tell  It  but  to 
know  also  where  to  offer  that  story  when  it  is  told.  In 
selling  a^  short  story  it  is  not  primarily  the  attitude  of 
any  one  individual  critic  or  group  of  self-appointed  critics 
that  matters;  it  is  the  attitude  of  the  editor  toward  the 
particular  story  under  consideration.  As  there  are  many 
stories  there  are  many  editors.  They  are  all  on  the  look- 
out for  new  and  good  material.  If  you  have  created  a 
good  story  it  Is  bound  some  day  to  find  its  publisher  and 
thereby  to  reach  its  public. 

In  order  that  this  book  may  be  of  practical  service 
to  the  new  writer  and  to  those  already  well  established 


PREFATORY   NOTE  xi 

the  editors  were  asked  why  they  bought  the  particular 
stories  they  did,  in  other  words  their  attitude  in  fiction 
buying.  Their  replies  are  printed  verbatim.  Many  came 
in  the  form  of  personal  letters  and  this  will  explain  why 
there  may  be  a  certain  lack  of  formality  in  some  of  the 
editorial  replies.  But  on  consideration  this  was  decided  the 
most  practical  way  in  which  the  editor  might  reach  his 
audience.  Analysis  of  the  answers  will  show  the  veriest 
tyro  that  a  story  that  might  do  excellently  for  the  Metro- 
politan need  not  be  desired  by  the  Dial  and  vice  versa. 

In  the  compiler's  mind  the  magazines  automatically 
group  themselves  into  classes,  a  grouping  which  attempts 
to  reach  no  conclusion  as  to  relative  literary  or  commercial 
values.  Certain  of  these  magazines  were  asked  to  in- 
clude a  story  that  had  appeared  in  its  pages  and  which 
from  the  point  of  view  of  that  magazine's  editorial  policy 
was  a  highly  desirable  and  good  story.  Here  the  editors 
hesitated:  they  had  many  good  stories  that  might  be  in- 
cluded. Eventually,  though,  choices  were  made  and  the 
authors  kindly  consenting  to  their  reprinting,  the  stories 
are  given  herewith. 

Here  again  it  cannot  be  made  too  clear  that  no  editorial 
verdict  was  attempted  in  including  stories  from  some  of 
the  magazines  and  in  omitting  those  from  others.  The 
aim  of  the  book  is  to  be  of  practical  service  in  pointing  out 
reasons  for  fiction  buying.  All  of  the  magazines  could 
not  be  included  because  of  space  limitation.  As  far  as 
possible  different  types  of  magazines  were  chosen.  The 
editors  of  these  magazines  again  one  and  all  were  unani- 
mous in  making  it  clear  that  they  could  have  suggested 
many  other  stories  that  had  appeared  in  their  pages  that 
were  equally  good  considered  literarily  or  artistically.  But 
as  the  book  does  attempt  to  guide  and  direct — so  far  as 
this  is  possible  in  an  art — they  chose  stories  that  they 
considered  representative  in  a  major  number  of  ways. 

Our  leading  weeklies  lay  much  emphasis  upon  their 
fiction.  The  Saturday  Evening  Post  buys  more  short 
stories  a  year  than  does  any  other  magazine.  Because  of 
its  enormous  circulation  the  contributor  has  the  satisfac- 
tion of  feeling  that  he  or  she  is  reaching  a  maximum  num- 


xii  PREFATORY   NOTE 

ber  of  readers.  The  style  of  stories  in  this  magazine 
changes  from  year  to  year  as  the  editor  has  been  re- 
peatedly heard  to  say  that  the  reading  public  is  apt  to  tire 
of  any  one  type  no  matter  how  well  done.  The  prac- 
tical note  is  apt  to  preponderate.  In  Collier's,  the  Na- 
tional Weekly,  we  find  a  very  American  story,  not  ex- 
ploiting big  cities  and  millionaire  circles,  but  rather  the 
moderately  incomed  home  of  the  average  American — 
its  good  fortune,  its  vicissitudes,  its  every  day  point  of 
view,  handled  with  exquisite  sympathy.  Leslie's,  limited 
in  space,  is  frankly  after  the  constructive  business  story. 

In  any  consideration  of  the  American  monthly  maga- 
zines automatically  Harper's,  Scribner's  and  Century 
come  to  mind  in  a  group.  These  put  great  emphasis 
upon  literary  execution.  The  Atlantic  Monthly  is  per- 
haps not  quite  so  rigid  in  its  demand  for  form  while  the 
Dial  is  almost  radical.  The  Touchstone  rates  artistry 
most  highly,  the  article  by  Mrs.  Roberts  in  this  book 
making  her  views  on  the  whole  matter  most  explicit. 

There  is  another  large  group  of  monthly  magazines, 
more  generally  popular  perhaps,  in  which  there  is  the 
very  greatest  diversity  and  yet  differentiation  of  editorial 
wants.  It  will  pay  to  study  these  magazines  closely.  The 
student  will  at  once  see  why  a  story  that  might  be  most 
popular  in  the  Metropolitan  would  not  have  a  chance  in 
the  American — and  at  that  no  purely  literary  or  technical 
point  need  be  involved.  In  this  group  of  magazines  there 
is  the  greatest  possible  chance  for  divergence  in  story 
treatment,  in  subject  matter,  even  in  methods  of  char- 
acterization. Since  Ray  Long  has  taken  over  the  Cos- 
mopolitan he  has  repeatedly  shown  his  catholicity  of  taste 
as  has  Karl  Harriman  in  subject  matter  in  the  Red  Book. 

It  is  easy  to  decide  which  stories  may  prove  suitable 
for  our  magazines  that  are  primarily  interested  in  sex 
problems,  and  this  does  not  necessarily  mean  sex  in  any 
too  realistic  or  too  sordid  sense.  The  editors  who  are 
selecting  the  material  for  these  periodicals  feel  that  sex  is 
the  fundamental  motivation  in  every  human  act;  that 
therefore  its  presentation  is  always  interesting,  of  moment, 
and  bound  to  intrigue  a  large  group  of  readers.     A  cer- 


PREFATORY   NOTE  xiii 

tain  number  of  the  smaller  of  these  magazines  demand 
liveliness  of  presentation  rather  than  newness  of  plot. 
All  are  apt  to  stress  a  certain  up-to-date  and  social 
quality. 

We  have  a  large  group  of  action  magazines.  They 
look  for  "story."  In  this  group  the  Street  and  Smith 
periodicals  are  particularly  interested  in  the  story  that 
has  an  American  hero  and  an  American  environment. 
Some  of  the  others  are  not  quite  so  restrictive.  Perhaps 
"a  good  yarn  rattling  well  told"  is  the  best  slogan  presen- 
tation of  their  wants.  But  like  all  slogans  it  is  unfair. 
The  frequent  presence  of  Joseph  Conrad  in  these  maga- 
zines certainly  would  seem  to  prove  that  craftsmanship 
is  appreciated. 

The  women's  magazines  make  a  point  of  carrying  as 
good  fiction  as  can  be  procured  and  in  some  of  them  we 
are  finding  the  best  short  stories  of  the  day.  The  Pictorial 
Review,  for  instance,  is  not  circumscribed  in  its  point  of 
view;  it  has  room  for  the  purely  artistic  creation;  it  wel- 
comes warmly  the  picture  of  life  whose  main  characteris- 
tic is  sympathetic  narration.  Other  magazines  in  this 
group  feel  that  they  should  publish  only  human  interest 
stories  as  these  make  the  strongest  appeal  to  their  particu- 
lar circle  of  women  readers. 

Many  of  the  stories  in  the  farm  and  fireside  journals 
are  written  with  a  distinct  purpose;  to  portray  intimately 
some  heretofore  little  known  section  of  the  country;  to 
illustrate  some  new  agricultural  theory;  to  create  sym- 
pathy for  some  rural  situation.  But  "purpose"  is  never 
allowed  to  destroy  story  values. 

Our  juvenile  magazines  make  no  secret  of  their  aim. 
It  is  to  influence  rightly  the  changing  character,  the  shift- 
ing ideals  and  aspirations  of  the  growing  boys  and  girls 
who  come  under  the  sway  of  their  story  pages.  The  fic- 
tion must  be  of  absorbing  interest  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  young,  but  at  the  same  time  it  must  contain  noth- 
ing that  would  react  detrimentally. 

From  the  above  brief  summary  it  Is  easy  to  see  that  a 
story  that  might  prove  eminently  acceptable  from  the 
point  of  view  of  one  magazine  might  not  do  at  all  for 


xiv  PREFATORY   NOTE 

another.  That  the  placing  of  a  story,  in  other  words, 
demands  a  certain  amount  of  knowledge  of  market  wants 
and  market  conditions.  This  brings  us  to  the  considera- 
tion of  the  agent.  Is  or  is  not  an  agent  of  help?  This 
question  is  largely  one  for  self-determination.  It  de- 
pends somewhat  on  the  personality  of  the  author.  All 
agents  cannot  help  all  authors:  there  is  a  give  and  take 
of  personality;  in  other  words,  the  human  equation  has 
something  to  do  with  the  success  of  the  relationship.  An 
agent  cannot  sell  a  story  that  is  not  sellable;  an  agent 
cannot  repeatedly  get  higher  prices  for  the  author  than 
the  author  can  get  for  himself.  An  agent  does  know 
more  of  the  markets  and  its  fluctuations;  agency  advice — 
as  it  is  a  matter  of  business — is  apt  to  be  impersonal 
and  good;  agency  direction  can  save  much  misguided 
effort. 

There  is  an  impression  that  agents  are  perhaps  not 
popular  with  editors.  This  is  not  true.  Perhaps  the 
letter  of  James  E.  Tower,  editor  of  The  Delineator  given 
herewith  and  which  came  unsolicited,  is  as  good  actual 
proof  of  this  fact  as  any  statement  which  the  writer 
might  make. 

Dear  Miss  Wick: 

A  certain  periodical,  which  has  its  distribution  amongst  writers,  has 
put  in.my  mouth  words  which  I  did  not  say  and  which  do  an  injustice 
alike  to  some  good  friends  of  mine  and  to  me. 

I  am  quoted  as  having  said,  at  a  recent  luncheon,  that  editors  are 
not  keen  about  purchasing  from  literary  brokers.  I  never  said  that 
nor  implied  it.  I  said  that  I  felt  that  the  brokers  had  been  the  largest 
single  factor  in  raising  and  maintaining  authors'  prices;  that  the  pub- 
lishing trade  were  inclined,  on  this  account,  to  look  askance  at  the 
agent  system,  but  that  authors  formerly  did  not  receive  adequate  com- 
pensation and  that  the  better  prices  had  raised  the  standard  of 
authorship  and  benefited  the  trade,  as  well  as  the  writers  themselves. 

My  own  editorial  career  is  sufficient  refutation  of  the  statement 
attributed  to  me.  I  think  I  never  heard  an  editor  express  any  prejudice 
against  the  broker  system. 

Sincerely  yours, 

James  E.  Tower. 

Lastly  do  not  let  it  be  felt  that  the  compiler  of  these 
editorial  want  paragraphs,  this  editorial  exposition  of  the 


PREFATORY   NOTE  xv 

stories  the  editor  wants  and  buys,  desires  to  express  any- 
personal  opinion  as  to  the  relative  literary  merits  or  com- 
mercial status  of  the  magazines  listed  in  this  book.  This 
is  not  a  book  of  criticism.  It  is  an  effort  to  have  the 
editors  talk  directly  to  those  who  for  any  reason  what- 
ever are  interested  in  the  American  short  story  as  it  is 
published  week  in  and  week  out  in  our  magazines. 

JEAN  WICK. 
New  York  City. 


Ainslee's  Magazine 

THE  WEEK-END  GUEST 


BY 

MARIE  VAN  VORST 


THE  WEEK-END  GUEST ' 
By  MARIE  VAN  VORST 

FROM  the  room  where  Patricia  Hereford's  wedding 
gifts  were  displayed,  the  Cong  Island  Sound  was 
visible,  and  it  lay  in  the  distance  on  this  October  day,  blue 
as  a  patch  of  cornflowers.  Down  at  the  dock  the  yacht 
waited  to  take  the  master  of  the  house  to  town.  Under- 
neath the  window  in  kilts,  bare  legs,  bagpipes  and  all,  a 
Highland  shepherd,  imported  by  the  lady  of  the  house 
from  his  native  heather  because  he  was  picturesque, 
watched  his  sheep  and  was  homesick  to  the  bone!  The 
twenty-five  Southdown  sheep  were  astoundingly  clean  and 
moved  about  in  patches  on  the  flawless  lawn.  Now  and 
again  the  wretched  piper  played  a  few  Scotch  melodies  as 
he  was  paid  to  do,  and  the  lady  of  the  house  listened  to 
the  piper's  tunes  with  her  pencil  on  her  lips  as  she  pie- 
pared  for  the  detective  a  list  of  the  wedding  presents. 

"What  melody  is  Sandy  playing  now,  Nell?" 

One  of  the  bridesmaids,  a  girl  who  was  staying  in  the 
house,  perched  nonchalantly  on  a  table,  a  notebook  and  a 
pencil  in  her  hands.  Miss  Moore  was  helping  Mrs.  Here- 
ford list  the  wedding  presents,  and  presumably  Miss 
Cynthia  Moore  was  thinking  of  her  own  wedding,  when  it 
should  come  to  pass,  as  bridesmaids  will !  She  dictated  to 
Mrs.  Hereford. 

"Number  one  thousand  and  six,  Nell,  a  pigskin  purse 
from  Eric  Johnson.     Pat's  own  chauffeur,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hereford,  "nice  of  him  and  in  per- 
fectly good  taste." 

Miss  Moore  swung  to  and  fro  a  foot  encased  in  a  cor- 
rect golf  brogue.      She  was  the  champion  woman  golfer 

*  Copyright  by  Ainslee's  Magazine. 


4  THE  WEEK-END   GUEST 

of  the  Eastern  States,  and  came  downstairs  in  the  morn- 
ing dressed  for  golf,  ready  for  her  game.  Indeed  she 
said  she  only  put  on  evening  dress  in  order  to  keep  out  of 
social  jail! 

"That's  the  nicest  thing  I  have  heard  you  say  about  any 
of  the  presents,  Nell !  //  people  who  sent  them  could  only 
hear  you!" 

The  lady  of  the  house  shrugged. 

"I  have  always  wondered  why  certain  frightful  things 
were  manufactured  and  now  I  know  they  are  for  wedding 
gifts.  The  boring  part  is  that  over  a  thousand  people 
will  have  to  be  hed  to  and  thanked!     Poor  Patricia!" 

There  they  were,  over  a  thousand  wedding  presents ! 
Patricia  Hereford  was  a  popular  debutante  and  her  father 
the  best  host  on  Long  Island.  Everything  that  indif- 
ferent taste  could  select  and  money  pay  for,  from  Here- 
ford's own  gift  of  diamonds  to  the  modest  pigskin  purse, 
was  here  displayed.  One  of  the  most  truly  beautiful 
things  was  a  pink  Persian  prayer  rug  of  rich  soft  tones, 
a  Persian  proverb  in  delicate  lettering  running  around  the 
border.  It  hung  on  the  wall  opposite  the  pearls  and  valu- 
able jewels.  Two  rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  the  big 
country  house  had  been  consecrated  to  this  exhibition,  and 
the  presents  were  to  be  seen  by  the  guests  on  the  follow- 
ing afternoon,  after  the  wedding. 

"Mr.  Jones  is  downstairs  in  the  fur  room,"  Mrs.  Here- 
ford said,  "but  his  men  have  not  come  up  from  Waybrook, 
and  I  thought  he  had  better  stay  with  the  sables  and  the 
silver  fox.  We  must  not  budge  from  here  until  they  come, 
but  you  can  go  to  Pat  if  you  like,  Cinnie.  I'll  stay  on." 
The  lady  of  the  house  glanced  out  at  the  Highland  piper 
and  his  astoundingly  clean  sheep  on  the  lawn. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Miss  Moore.  "That's  the  tune  1 
mean,  Nell!  What  is  it — do  you  know?  Hear  it  and 
weep,  don't  you  think  so?" 

Mrs.  Hereford  hummed  the  tune  through,  accompanied 
by  the  melancholic  piper  from  without. 

"Jolly!"  exclaimed  Cynthia  from  her  table.  "Jolly  in 
your  adorable  voice!  Are  there  any  words  that  go  with 
It  or  is  it  only  a  sob  and  a  wail?" 


MARIE   VAN   VORST  5 

"Ye  Highlands  and  ye  Lowlands  oh!     Where  have  you  been? 
They  have  slain  the  Earl  of  Moray  and  laid  him  on  the  green. 
He  was  a  braw  gallant  and  he  rode  for  the  glove, 
And  the  gallant  Earl  of  Moray  he  was  the  Queen's  love; 
And  long  shall  the  Lady  look  from  the  Castle  down 
To  hear  the  Earl  of  Moray  go  stounin'  through  the  Town." 

Mrs.  Hereford's  really  beautiful  voice  filled  the.  gift 
room  with  its  sweetness. 

"I'll  catalogue  wedding  presents  indefinitely,"  said  Miss 
Moore,  "if  you'll  go  on  like  that.  Anyhow,  Nell,  he  is  the 
Queen's  Love  all  right!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Hereford  sharply. 

"Captain  Ramsay.     He  is  crazy  about  you." 

Mrs.  Hereford  had  been  comparing  her  list  with  that 
of  Miss  Moore.  She  went  over  to  the  window,  looked 
out  until  the  red  died  from  her  face,  and  said  over  her 
shoulder: 

"Go  on  with  your  list,  Cinnie,  and  don't  be  a  goose." 

The  girl  wrote  diligently  for  a  few  moments.  Mrs. 
Hereford  returned  to  the  table  where  the  pigskin  purse 
reposed  between  the  red  lacquer  box,  on  which  the  card 
read:  "Maharajah  of  Singapore,"  and  a  sapphire  ring  on 
the  other  side. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry  for  you,  Nell,  you'll  miss  Pat 
beyond  words,  shan't  you.^" 

"Yes,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house,  "to-morrow  night 
I  shall  be  utterly  alone." 

"How  nice  for  your  husband !"  Miss  Moore  laughed. 
"Where  is  poor  old  Tommy  going,  anyway?" 

"Nowhere,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house  coolly.  "I  mean 
we  will  be  all  alone." 

Mrs.  Hereford  was  twenty  years  younger  than  her  hus- 
band. She  had  never  asked  herself  so  often  before,  how 
she  was  going  to  be  able  to  entertain  the  prospect  of  end- 
less luncheons  and  endless  dinners  opposite  Tommy  Here- 
ford. 

"Entirely  alone,"  she  murmured  again,  walking  down 
the  long  line  of  presents.  From  the  splendid  pearls  she 
came  back  to  Eric  Johnson's  purse  and  stood  near  it  as 
though  something  drew  her  to  that  special  spot.  She 
had  not  married  Hereford  to  bring  up  his  children,  she 


6  THE   WEEK-END   GUEST 

was  only  a  little  older  than  they.  She  had  been  a  sister 
to  them  during  the  five  years  of  her  married  life  and  Jack 
Hereford,  who  was  unpopular  with  his  father,  adored  his 
stepmother. 

"Why  did  you  marry  your  husband,  Helen?"  Cynthia 
Moore  asked  laughingly,  but  she  did  wonder  with  all  her 
might.  Since  she  had  known  the  two  she  had  never  been 
able  to  understand  the  union. 

Mrs.  Hereford,  leaning  with  one  hand  on  the  gift  table, 
the  other  playing  with  her  long  rope  of  pearls,  said  absent- 
mindedly, 

"Oh,  there  must  be  twenty  reasons  why!" 

"And  you  can't  think  of  one !"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

On  the  hard  floor  of  the  next  room  fell  the  footsteps  of 
some  one  coming  quickly  toward  them. 

"Listen,  Nell,"  laughed  the  girl  who  was  staying  in  the 
house,  "  'the  Earl  of  Moray  is  stounin'  through  the  town !' 
You'll  miss  him,  too,  when  he  goes  to-morrow!  I  am 
awfully  sorry  for  him." 

"Hello,  Captain  Ramsay!"  she  said.  "Come  and  take 
my  place  and  list  these  things  with  Mrs.  Hereford."  She 
held  out  the  book  and  the  pencil  to  him.  She  understood 
many  things. 

Since  Ramsay  had  come  to  Waybrook  ten  days  before 
with  Jack  Hereford,  he  had  scarcely  spoken  a  word  to 
any  one;  scarcely  looked  at  any  one  but  the  lady  of  the 
house,  and  his  absorption  in  her  was  dangerously  charm- 
ing to  a  woman  not  in  love  with  her  husband. 

"You  don't  have  to  stay  in  the  house  all  morning,  do 
you,  Mrs.  Hereford?"  he  asked  eagerly.  Ramsay  wore 
the  uniform  of  the  Blank  Flying  Corps,  and  his  breast 
was  full  of  stars. 

"Yes,  Miss  Moore  and  I  are  on  guard  here,  and  I  wish 
you  would  do  something  for  me,  will  you,  like  an  angel?" 

Ramsay  mechanically  picked  up  the  pigskin  purse. 

"I  have  got  one  like  this,"  he  said,  "it  doesn't  look  like  a 
wedding  present!  I  have  carried  mine  through  the  war 
and  it  is  as  empty  now  as  it  was  then,"  he  laughed. 

"Please,  please!"  urged  the  lady  of  the  house,  "do  run 
down  to  the  graperies  where  we  were  yesterday " 


MARIE   VAN   VORST  7 

Ramsay  interrupted. 

"I  wanted  to  go  with  you  now,  Mrs.  Hereford,  down 
there;  can't  we?" 

"I  am  on  guard.  If  anything  were  stolen  from  this 
room,  Cynthia  and  I  would  be  responsible.  I  am  making 
up  a  lunch  basket  for  Patricia.  She  is  crazy  about  Ham- 
burg grapes  and  I  want  to  put  some  in." 

"You  only  want  to  send  me  away,"  he  laughed.  "I 
never  went  on  so  many  distant  errands  in  my  life !  Isn't 
there  something  you  want  in  New  York?" 

"I  do  want  the  grapes  !" 

She  wanted  to  get  him  from  under  the  clever  scrutiny  of 
Cynthia  Moore,  and  after  he  had  gone  out  of  the  room, 
reluctant  in  every  move  of  his  body.  Miss  Moore  asked, 

"What  do  you  know  about  Captain  Ramsay?" 

The  bridesmaid  had  a  fashion  of  putting  questions 
when  she  was  interested  in  anything  with  a  frank  abrupt- 
ness, at  once  alluring  and  embarrassing. 

"Not  much,  just  picturesque  things,"  said  the  lady  of 
the  house.  "There's  the  last  item,  Cinnie,  diamond  pen- 
dant, value  four  thousand  dollars." 

Cynthia  Moore  scrutinized  her  list.  "All  right!  We 
have  varied  it  agreeably !  We  began  with  'gift  of  the 
bridegroom,  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,'  and  we  drift 
along  to  a  pigskin  purse,  value  one  dollar  fifty,  I  should 
say,  and  close  with  a  medium  note,  a  little  four  thousand! 
Tell  me  about  Ramsay." 

Miss  Moore  had  arrived  the  day  before,  coming  back 
with  the  Herefords  from  the  races,  to  a  large  house  party 
of  which  Jack  Hereford,  son  of  the  house,  home  from 
France,  and  Captain  Ralph  Ramsay  were  part, 

"Jack's  crazy  about  him,"  said  Mrs.  Hereford.  "He  is 
Jack's  best  friend." 

"'M!"  murmured  Miss  Moore.  "Excuse  me,  my  dear! 
You  have  a  soft  spot  in  your  heart  for  Jack.  I  don't 
understand  it — I  never  have." 

Mrs.  Hereford  went  on. 

"They  have  been  together  for  two  years  in  France  in 
the  same  sector.  Captain  Ramsay  is  an  ace  with  a  rip- 
ping record,  as  you  know." 


8  THE   WEEK-END    GUEST 

"No,"  returned  the  bridesmaid,  giving  her  book  up  to 
Mrs.  Hereford,  "I  don't  know  anything  about  him." 

Miss  Moore  was  an  unusually  understanding  young 
person;  some  people  said  she  had  ten  senses  where  others 
have  only  seven. 

"Well !"  said  the  lady  of  the  house.  "He  is  quite  poor; 
lots  of  nice  people  are.  He  is  from  the  West  as  you  can 
hear  by  his  accent." 

"No' one  has  a  chance  to  hear  much  of  his  accent  but 
you !     He  never  speaks  to  any  one  else." 

"Ridiculous!"  said  the  lady  of  the  house.  "Jack  told 
me  that  every  one  in  the  sector  from  the  mascot  to  the 
colonel  was  crazy  about  Ralph,  and  as  you  see,  he  has  all 
the  medals  that  can  be  won." 

"Too  bad  he  couldn't  have  worked  ofT  a  few  on  Jack," 
said  Cynthia.  "Jack  is  as  bare  as  a  bone,  and  his  father 
seems  to  have  it  in  for  him  harder  than  ever!  What  has 
Jack  done  since  he  was  demobilized,  Nell?" 

Mrs.  Hereford  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  ask  me!  My  husband  doesn't  like  my  interfer- 
ence. I  learned  that  and  I  don't  try  to  know.  Jack  is 
going  to  California  to-morrow.  He  is  going  on  with 
aviation,  and  I  hope  will  go  into  the  United  States  army 
for  good.     I  hope  he  will." 

"Too  bad!"  murmured  Miss  Moore.  For  in  her  kind 
and  understanding  heart  there  was  a  very  warm  place  for 
the  master  of  the  house.  "Too  bad  such  a  fine  man  as 
Tommy  should  have  a  son  like  Jack." 

"You  are  very  unfair  to  him,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house 
warmly.  "I  think  I  am  the  only  one  to  understand  him. 
I  believe  the  very  best  of  Jack,  and  I  know  he'll  come  out 
all  right.     He  has  a  good  military  record  over  there." 

Miss  Moore  laughed.  "Well,  he  did  not  get  shot_  in 
the  back!  I  know  I'm  rotten,  but — "  She  came  im- 
pulsively over  to  her  friend  and  put  her  arms  around  her. 
"Now  the  Earl  of  Moray  is  another  thing.  He's  all  right. 
You  can  see  his  record  on  his  face  and  on  his  breast,  and 
I  excuse  his  'stounin'  through  the  town'  and  his  entire 
absorption  in  another  woman — he  is  all  right!" 

Cynthia  Moore  kissed  Mrs.  Hereford  and  then  went 


MARIE   VAN   VORST  9 

upstairs  to  Patricia,  who  had  been  waiting  for  her  for  the 
last  half  hour.  The  lady  of  the  house  was  not  sorry  to 
be  alone. 

She  knew  about  Ralph  Ramsay  only  what  her  step- 
son had  told  her  in  his  letters  from  France  during  the 
past  two  years.  In  these  letters  Ralph  Ramsay  had  been 
described  as  a  "wonder,  a  corker,  a  dare-devil  in  the  air,  a 
chap  who  defied  danger  and  death,  a  little  bit  of  all  right," 
and  when  Jack  took  the  trouble  to  detail  some  thrilling 
event  or  to  tell  of  fine  achievements,  Ralph  Ramsay  would 
turn  out  to  be  the  man  who  had  done  the  thing.  In  Jack's 
letters  the  ace  had  charmed  this  imaginative  and  loveless 
woman,  and  his  valor  and  his  courage  had  fascinated  her 
from  afar.  In  her  room,  on  her  bureau  and  on  her  desk, 
were  numerous  snapshots  of  the  two  young  men,  and  the 
ace  seemed  always  to  be  smiling  at  her  and  to  be  the  ex- 
pression of  la  joie  de  vivre.  He  attracted  her  enormously, 
and  in  the  little  pictures  she  grew  to  know  every  line  of 
his  slim  body  and  of  his  beautiful  head.  As  he  waved  his 
cap  at  the  side  of  a  broken  machine  from  which  he  had 
landed  that  time  safely,  he  seemed  to  wave  to  her  and  to 
greet  her. 

When  her  husband  came  into  her  little  room,  if  he  re- 
sented the  fact  that  there  were  no  pictures  of  himself  there 
and  too  many  of  his  scapegrace  of  a  son,  his  good  breeding 
did  not  allow  him  to  comment  on  the  fact!  He  showed  a 
friendly  approval  of  Captain  Ramsay,  however. 

"Now  there  is  a  fine-looking  chap,  Nell,  and  I  hope  to 
God  he  does  Jack  good,     I'd  like  a  son  like  that!" 

But  he  saw  the  flying  man  under  different  colors  when 
Ramsay  appeared  at  Waybrook.  Ramsay  came  into  a 
conventional  atmosphere  with  a  vivid  charm  of  which  no 
one  was  unconscious,  and  if  Jack  had  written  that  from 
the  mascot  to  the  colonel  he  was  popular  in  France — he 
was  popular  at  Waybrook,  from  the  chauffeur  by  whose 
side  he  had  sat  on  the  way  from  the  train,  to  the  lady  of 
the  house.  Not  even  the  big  wedding  with  the  rush,  ex- 
citement, and  absorption  had  been  able  to  cloud  over  the 
brightness  of  the  passing  of  Ralph  Ramsay.  If  he  defied 
danger  in  the  air,  the  young  man  defied  convention  here; 


10  THE   WEEK-END    GUEST 

and  with  utter  disregard  of  propriety  he  fell  in  love  with 
the  lady  of  the  house  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  his 
passion.  Mrs.  Hereford  remembered  what  her  stepson 
had  said  of  him:  "Women  go  crazy  about  Ralph.  In  the 
hospital  he  had  the  nurses  nailed.  It  was  comic,  the  poor 
chaps  on  either  side  of  him  stood  no  chance  at  all!" 

Tommy  Hereford,  the  best  host  on  Long  Island,  had  on 
this  occasion  displayed  a  perfect  hospitality!  For  ten 
days  he  watched  this  young  man  make  love  to  his  wife 
and  did  not  throw  him  out!  Hereford  sincerely  loved  his 
wife,  and  was  determined  to  win  her  if  he  could.  He  had 
no  intention  of  playing  the  losing  game  of  a  jealous  hus- 
band. 

The  day  before,  to  protecL  Ramsay  and  to  get  him 
away  where  she  could  warn  him,  and  try  to  make  him 
behave,  she  had  snatched  half  an  hour  from  the  rushing 
day  and  taken  him  to  the  graperies.  He  had  drawn  her 
into  his  arms  and  held  her  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
gardener  was  in  the  next  glass  house  and  talking  across  to 
Mrs.  Hereford.  Ramsay  had  said  over  the  man's  voice 
and  over  the  scent  of  violets: 

"I  love  you  terribly — with  every  bit  of  me — thank  God 
I  was  not  smashed  up  in  France  before  I  could  tell  you 
this!" 

Now  she  knew  he  would  think  of  every  moment  of  this. 
She  could  never  go  into  those  graperies  again  without  a 
thrill.     Her  husband  was  going  to  town  on  the  yacht  and 
came  in  smoking  and  holding  out  two  one-thousand-dollar 
bills. 

"Nell,  I  want  Patricia  to  have  some  pocket  money  in 
her  dressing  case.     Slip  these  in,  will  you?" 

"Tommy,"  exclaimed  his  wife,  "you  never  stop,  do 
you?" 

"I  am  glad  I  don't  have  to  stop,"  said  the  father,  "when 
it  is  the  case  of  doing  something  for  my  little  girl." 

"I'll  put  them  in  this  little  leather  purse,"  said  Mrs. 
Hereford  and  she  took  up  the  little  pocketbook.  "Pat 
says  she  is  going  to  take  it  with  her.  Tommy,  and  she'll  be 
frightfully  pleased." 

He  gave  her  the  bills,  and  Mrs.  Hereford  slipped  them 
into  the  little  purse. 


MARIE    VAN   VORST  ii 

"Going  to  leave  it  there  around  loose  like  that?"  asked 
the  business  man. 

"Why  not?  Jones'  men  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  Think 
of  the  things  farther  along  and  what  they  are  worth. 
There  is  no  one  here  but  ourselves." 

Through  the  other  doorway  Jack  Hereford  and  Ralph 
Ramsay  came  in  together.  Since  he  had  been  at  Wa)- 
brook,  Ramsay  had  never  seen  the  husband  and  wife  alone 
together.  He  stopped  short  on  the  threshold,  but  the  son 
went  in. 

"I've  not  been  robbing  the  graperies,"  Ramsay  said. 
"These  are  going  in  your  daughter's  lunch  basket,  Mr. 
Hereford." 

"I  dare  say,"  nodded  the  father.  "Everything  goes 
with  Pat!" 

"Look  what  dad  has  just  given  her."  Mrs.  Hereford 
held  up  the  purse  and  the  bills.  "I  am  putting  them  in 
this  little  pigskin  purse  so  that  if  she  wants  to  buy  some 
stamps  she'll  find  them  handy." 

Jack  looked  at  his  father's  last  generous  gift  without  a 
word,  turned  about  and  went  and  stood  at  the  window. 
The  piper,  who  felt  he  had  done  as  much  as  his  salary 
demanded,  was  silent.  With  his  back  to  the  house  he 
gazed  beyond  the  Sound  toward  the  bonnie  hills  of  Scot- 
land. Ramsay  seemed  to  appreciate  the  generosity,  how- 
ever. 

"Wonderful!"  he  exclaimed.  "Wonderful  to  be  able  to 
do  things  like  that  for  one's  children !" 

And  he  looked  from  the  husband  to  the  wife,  but  his 
tone  was  bitter.  Airs.  Hereford  had  never  heard  a  note 
like  this  in  his  voice.  As  her  husband  went  out  of  the 
room  and  his  son  slowly  followed  him,  IVlrs.  Hereford 
asked  Ramsay: 

"Why  did  you  speak  so  bitterly  when  my  husband  gave 
Patricia  his  parting  gift?     It  was  not  like  you!" 

"Bitterly !"  he  exclaimed.  "My  dad  threw  me  out  when 
I  was  twelve — he  married  again — I  wasn't  wanted,  and 
since  then  I  have  never  known  a  home.  I  have  knocked 
about  the  world.  I  have  never  seen  a  family  life  and 
when  Jack  used  to  talk  of  his  people  I  never  believed  that 


12  THE   WEEK-END   GUEST 

anything  like  this  existed!  And  now  that  I  see  what  it 
means  to  a  chap,  it  makes  me  bitter,  that's  all!" 

"Poor  boy!" 

"Oh,  no!  Oh,  no,"  he  hurried.  "For  God's  sake,  don't 
pity  me !  I  don't  want  to  grouch.  I  have  been  hungry, 
I  have  always  been  poor,  but  I've  managed  to  get  some- 
thing of  life  everywhere!  I  suppose  you'd  call  me  an 
adventurer." 

He  threw  back  his  beautiful  head  and  laughed. 

"It  is  a  good  adventure  all  right  and  I  am  glad  I  am 
part  of  it." 

He  took  her  hand,  looked  down  at  her  with  his  wonder- 
ful frank  smile,  and  with  the  courage  that  conquers  the 
world. 

"I  am  glad  that  all  those  hard  paths  have  brought  me 
here  to  you.  I  have  seen  a  lot  of  women,  but  I  never 
cared  like  this." 

She  believed  it  and  he  kissed  her  again  deeply,  deeply, 
many  times;  indifferent  to  the  fact  that  they  might  be 
observed,  and  how  serious  it  would  be  for  her;  but  she 
freed  herself  saying: 

"What  madness!   This  must  have  its  end,  you  know!" 

And  he  murmured  passionately,  "Yes,  it  must  have  its 
end,  dearest.     When  can  I  see  you?" 

"To-night,"  she  said,  "in  the  music  room  at  twelve — at 
half  past  twelve." 

Unmistakably  some  one  was  coming  in  the  hall.  Mrs. 
Hereford  turned  and  hurriedly  left  the  room. 

After  she  had  gone  out  Ramsay  stood  motionless  beside 
the  long  tables.  Life,  which  had  been  so  full  of  unkind- 
ne-ss  to  him  and  so  full  of  caprices,  seemed  at  last 
to  have  smiled  upon  him.  Only  certain  moments  in  the 
air  when  above  the  German  lines  he  had  escaped  the 
enemy's  barrage  and  later  brought  dovvn  his  black  foe — 
seen  him  fall,  only  in  moments  of  such  magnitude,  had  he 
felt  lifted  as  high  as  to-day. 

Here  some  one  called: 

"Nell!    Nell,  where  are  you?" 

And  down  through  the  long  room,  next  where  his  own 
eager  footsteps  had  gone  "stounin'  "  on  the  parquet  floor, 


MARIE   VAN   VORST  13 

came  Patricia  Hereford,  the  bride,  in  her  wedding  dress, 
looking  for  her  stepmother.  She  stood  hesitatingly  on  the 
threshold  between  the  rooms. 

"Where's  mother,  Captain  Ramsay?" 

Patricia  passed  for  a  beauty.  She  was  happy  and 
healthy,  lit  by  young  expectancy  and  young  hope  and 
love.  White  as  a  lily,  and  tall  as  a  lily,  she  stood  looking 
about  at  her  beautiful  things  as  a  child  might  at  his 
Christmas  gifts. 

"What  a  crowd  of  things !"  she  murmured.  "What  an 
awful  lot,  isn't  it.''  And  all  for  little  me."  She  nodded 
and  laughed.  "It  will  take  a  thousand  years  to  write 
letters  of  thanks  for  them  all.     I'll  make  Nelly  do  it." 

She  slowly  walked  along  in  front  of  the  presents,  lifting 
a  card  here,  stopping  a  moment  there,  only  half  attentive, 
half  seeing  them,  having  this  day  more  dazzling  things 
than  material  jev/els  to  think  about.  She  stopped  finally, 
before  the  pigskin  purse  lying  between  the  sapphire  ring 
and  the  lacquer  box.  The  young  man  who  had  been 
thrown  out  of  family  life  at  twelve  to  fight  for  his  exist- 
ence, watched  this  spoiled  society  girl  in  her  satin  dress, 
surrounded  by  objects  whose  value  footed  up  to  hundreds 
of  thousands. 

"I  have  not  half  seen  the  things  yet !  Aren't  they  won- 
derful.?" 

She  picked  up  the  purse. 

"This  is  from  m.y  chauffeur.      Wasn't  it  kind  of  him?" 

She  opened  it  mechanically,  looked  up  at  Ramsay,  and 
said,  laughing: 

"Oh,  gracious!   That's  daddy!" 

"It  was  meant  for  a  surprise  for  you." 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  "I  won't  tell.  Indeed,  if  any 
one  asks,  I'll  swear  it  was  empty."  She  laughed  and  put 
it  down  again. 

"It  is  great  of  you.  Captain  Ramsay,  to  have  watched 
the  presents  for  me.     Thank  you  a  thousand  times." 

Ramsay  looked  up  at  the  prayer  rug. 

"I  wish  since  you  are  here,  Miss  Hereford,  you'd  tell  me 
what  the  letters  around  this  prayer  rug  mean!  What  do 
they  say?" 


14  THE   WEEK-END   GUEST 

^ 
She  thought  a  minute. 

"I  have  got  it  written  out  upstairs  somewhere." 
It  was  difficult  for  the  bride  to  bring  her  attention  to 
Persian  characters. 

"As  near  as  I  can  remember  they  say: 

"To  the  Great  Lover  Honor  and  Dishonor  Life  and  Death  are  in  the 
hands  of  the  Beloved." 

Ramsay  nodded.  "Great!"  he  said.  "I  like  it  awfully. 
It's  ripping." 

"Hello,  Pat!"  Her  brother  stood  on  the  threshold  she 
had  crossed.  "Hello,  people!  I  have  been  looking  for 
you,  Pat.     I  have  been  up  to  your  room." 

The  two  young  people,  absorbed  in  a  saying  of  the  Far 
East,  did  not  answer.  Patricia  and  Ralph  stood  with 
their  backs  to  the  sapphire  ring  and  the  maharajah's  red 
lacquer  box  and  the  pigskin  purse. 

"The  Maharajah  of  Singapore,"  said  Miss  Hereford, 
"gave  me  wonderful  lessons  last  year  in  Boston.  All  the 
girls  were  crazy  about  him.  You  read  from  left  to  right." 
She  pointed  with  her  slender  finger  of  the  left  hand  on 
which  the  wedding  ring  would  be  very  soon.  "There  like 
that,  see: 

"  'To  the  Great  Lover  Honor  and  Dishonor'  on  the  first 
line;  'Life  and  Death  are  in  the  hands  of  the  Beloved' 
on  the  second  line." 

The  Scotch  piper  without,  on  the  flawless  lawn  with  his 
twenty-five  astoundingly  clean  sheep,  had  decided  to  take 
his  grazing  herd  farther  along  and  had  gone  to  the  end 
of  the  park.  From  the  distance  they  could  hear  the  tune 
of  his  melancholic  music  as  it  came  to  them  faintly  as 
they  stood  there  reading  the  rug. 

"And  the  gallant  Earl  of  Moray  he  was  the  queen's  love." 

"The  Great  Lover,"  Ramsay  repeated  the  words;  they 
were  fascinating.  Oh,  it  was  worth  while  in  life  to  be  a 
great  lover!  Ah,  he  could  be  it  now  for  her — for  her — 
for  the  woman  he  had  kissed  and  held  in  his  arms! 

"Mr.  Rolland  would  like  to  speak  to  Miss  Hereford  in 
her  room." 


MARIE   VAN  VORST  15 

No  one  but  the  family  was  allowed  in  the  gift  room  and 
the  footman  with  a  message  for  Patricia  from  the  bride- 
groom stopped  halfway  down  the  next  room,  and  even 
though  she  was  so  near  being  Mrs.  RoUand,  the  girl 
blushed  at  the  name  and  started  forward. 

"I'll  come  at  once.  Captain  Ramsay,  do  find  Nell.  Ask 
her  to  come  up  to  my  room.     I  must  see  her," 

"I  can't  leave  here,"  said  Ramsay.  "Jack  will  tell  her. 
I  say,  old  man — "  And  he  turned  round  to  speak  to 
Jack,  but  Hereford  had  simply  crossed  the  room  and  gone 
out  by  the  other  door. 

As  Mrs.  Hereford,  after  leaving  Ramsay,  went  out  of 
the  gift  room  she  ran  into  young  Hereford,  who  caught 
her  arm  and  drew  her  toward  her  own  room. 

"Nell,  come  along  with  me  a  second,  will  you?" 

Her  stepchildren  called  her  by  her  first  name.  She  was 
more  like  a  sister  than  a  mother  to  them.  She  was  always 
dreading  demands  of  money  from  Jack,  for  whenever  he 
wanted  either  to  confess  to  her  or  to  demand  a  favor,  he 
made  her  boudoir  a  confessional. 

Mrs.  Hereford  was  a  Southerner,  accustomed  to  a  great 
deal  of  admiration  from  young  men,  and  Jack  Hereford 
was  especially  chivalrous  and  devoted  to  her.  He  might 
well  be,  for  she  had  been  his  defender  against  his  father 
more  than  once.  Now  he  pat  her  in  a  comfortable  chair 
and  called  in  to  her  maid,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  next 
roomi. 

"Marie,  like  an  angel  fetch  a  couple  of  cocktails  for 
Mrs.  Hereford  and  me,  will  you.'"' 

"You  should  rest,  Nell;  you've  been  worn  out  with  all 
this  rush." 

When  he  had  made  his  stepmother  comfortable,  he  lit  a 
cigarette  for  her,  took  one  himself,  and  looked  around  at 
the  photographs  of  himself  and  Ramsay. 

"Gee,  what  a  lot  of  me !  You  framed  everything  I  ever 
sent  you,  I  guess.  Isn't  Ralph  a  corker?  Now  he's  got 
the  good  luck  to  be  staying  on.  I've  brought  you  here, 
Nell,  to  say  good-by.      I've  got  to  go  to-day," 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 


i6  THE   WEEK-END    GUEST 

"You  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  miss  the  wedding?" 

"I  am  awfully  cut  up  about  it — military  orders,  and — 
honestly,  I'm  not  sorry  to  get  away.  Dad  has  been  rot- 
ten to  me — absolutely  rotten!" 

The  maid  brought  the  two  cocktails  on  a  tray.  Jack 
drank  his  and  said  half  smiling: 

"You're  a  brick,  Nell.  Ralph  will  bring  me  news  of 
everything  when  he  comes.  Good-by — don't  get  too  tired. 
See  you  at  Christmas."  He  leaned  over,  kissed  her,  and 
went  to  bid  his  sister  good-by. 

The  lady  of  the  house,  while  alone  in  her  room  the 
next  few  moments,  received  countless  telephone  calls  and 
messages.  As  soon  as  they  knew  she  was  to  be  found 
every  one  came  to  her.  Only  after  she  had  dismissed  the 
last  messenger  could  she  draw  a  long  breath  and  remem- 
ber Ralph  in  the  room  beyond. 

Ramsay  had  become  a  great  excitement  and  a  problem. 
To-morrow  he  would  be  gone,  however,  and  to-night  she 
would  try  to  put  things  on  another  footing,  and  in  his  ab- 
sence turn  to  the  occupations  of  her  busy  social  life  to 
try  to  forget  him. 

As  she  passed  through  the  apartment  adjoining  the  gift 
room,  she  could  see  the  tables  weighed  down  with  their 
priceless  things,  and  Ralph  still  alone  in  front  of  the 
maharajah's  lacquer  box  and  the  sapphire  ring  opposite 
the  prayer  rug  on  the  wall.  She  could  see,  too,  that  in  his 
hands  was  the  little  purse;  he  was  clositig  it — slipping  the 
strap  under  the  band.  He  put  it  quickly  down  as  he 
heard  her  steps  and  came  toward  her  with  a  radiant  face 
as  though  he  had  no  thought  beyond  the  fact  that  she 
had  come  back  and  alone.  She  had  time  only  to  meet  his 
eyes  with  a  troubled  question  in  her  own,  for,  sharp  and 
alert,  Mr.  Jones,  with  one  of  the  other  detectives,  followed 
behind  her.  The  three  together  entered  the  room  where 
Ramsay  stood.     Jones  said  briskly: 

"Now,  we'll  take  charge  here,  Mrs.  Hereford,  and  re- 
lieve you.  Captain  Ramsay." 

But  the  young  man  paid  no  more  attention  to  them  than 
if  they  had  been  ghosts.  He  was  looking  only  at  the 
woman  whom  he  had  taken  lately  in  his  arms. 


MARIE   VAN  VORST  17 

"Since  you  went  away  I  have  learned  to  read  the  writ- 
ing on  the  wall." 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  not  thinking  of  Persian 
characters  and  Persian  rugs. 

"Miss  Hereford  came  in  her  wedding  gown.  She  was 
looking  for  you  and  she  read  me  the  writing  on  the  wall." 

"I  have  forgotten  what  it  says." 

At  the  far  end  of  the  big  room  Jones  and  his  man  were 
comparing  the  lists  and  checking  them. 

"I  saw  Miss  Hereford,  too,"  said  Jones.  "She  came  to 
the  fur  room  to  tell  me  about  the  little  pigskin  purse  with 
loose  cash — two  thousand  dollars !  I  told  Miss  Here- 
ford it  was  a  mistake  to  let  loose  cash  like  that  lie  around." 

And  the  detective  took  up  the  little  pocketbook,  undid 
the  strap  which  Mrs.  Hereford  had  just  seen  Ramsay 
close.  Jones  was  perfunctory,  and  he  looked  into  the 
little  purse  out  of  habit.  Finding  it  empty,  he  held  it 
over  to  Mrs.  Hereford  and  Ramsay,  saying: 

"Empty  as  a  drum." 

Jones  was  delighted.  He  was  glad  of  the  snappy  little 
incident,  and  his  man,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  turned 
round  with  alacrity  at  his  chief's  voice.  Captain  Ram- 
say, his  hands  in  his  pockets,  stood  perfectly  motionless, 
looking  quietly  at  the  lady  of  the  house.  Before  he  could 
speak  she  said: 

"Miss  Hereford  is  very  careless,  and  how  could  she 
possibly  exchange  two  thousand-dollar  bills  on  her  honey- 
moon.^ I  thought  as  you  did,  Mr.  Jones,  and  I  told  her 
father  before  he  went  to  town  I  had  a  lot  of  large  bills 
to  pay  on  the  place  and  I  wanted  some  cash.  Mr.  Here- 
ford asked  me  to  slip  in  my  own  check  instead.  I  left 
it  out  on  my  desk  in  my  boudoir.  Pll  go  and  fetch  it 
now." 

There  was  nothing  whatsoever  to  say  to  the  lady  of  the 
house — it  was  perfectly  en  regie. 

"AH  right,"  said  Jones.  "We'll  list  it  properly  and  it 
will  be  much  safer." 

As  the  lady  of  the  house  went  out  the  detective  said 
to  Captain  Ramsay: 

"Now  if  you  want  to  go  off  duty?" 


i8        \  THE   WEEK-END   GUEST 

The  young  man  even  then  looked  at  nothing  but  the 
disappearing  figure  of  Helen  Hereford.  He  stared  at  it 
as  if  he  wanted  to  follow  her,  then  wheeled  about  and 
went  out  by  the  opposite  door.     He  called  out  to  Jones: 

"I  am  going  to  have  a  bit  of  air  before  luncheon." 

How  that  day  passed  she  never  knew.  She  had  gone  to 
Patricia  and  kissed  her  under  her  wedding  veil,  and  there 
had  been  the  bustle  in  the  busy  house — countless  things  to 
be  done,  to  be  decided — endless  messages  and  calls.  No 
one  saw  Captain  Ramsay  or  knew  where  he  had  gone 
and,  at  dinner,  when  the  host  asked  for  him,  a  manser- 
vant answered: 

"Captain  Ramsay  was  called  over  the  phone  by  a 
brother  officer  and  has  gone  to  the  club.  He  has  taken  his 
traps." 

"Apres  la  guerre  comvie  a  la  guerre!"  said  Cynthia 
Moore.  "Manners!  That's  the  Earl  of  Moray  all  over!" 
And  she  made  a  grimace  at  Mrs.  Hereford  as  much  as  to 
say:    "You  packed  him  off  at  last,  and  no  wonder." 

He  had  simply  fled,  and  the  shame  and  the  degradation 
sickened  her  to  the  soul.  He  had  not  given  her  time  to 
recover  from  his  passionate  declarations  before  he  had 
stolen  under  her  very  eyes,  one  might  say,  under  her 
very  kisses.  How  had  he  dared  to  touch  her?  How  had 
he  dared? 

By  dinner  time  she  was  so  overcome  by  her  wretched- 
ness that  she  was  obliged  to  go  to  her  boudoir  to  shut 
herself  away.  As  she  saw  him  on  the  little  photograph  by 
the  side  of  his  machine,  ready  to  ascend — and  in  another 
near  the  broken  wing  of  a  fallen  plane  after  an  accident, 
she  thought: 

"Far  better  to  have  died  than  to  have  come  back  to 
this!  What  must  this  day  have  been  for  him?"  All  day 
she  disputed  with  herself,  loathing  herself  one  moment, 
believing  him  innocent  the  next. 

Her  husband  had  come  out  to  Waybrook  early.  He,  as 
well  as  Cynthia  Moore,  thought  that  Mrs.  Hereford  had 
sent  the  young  man  away.  Hereford  came  in  to  his  wife's 
room  just  before  dinner. 


MARIE   VAN  VORST  19 

"I'll  be  glad  when  all  this  is  over  and  you  can  rest." 

She  looked  at  him  gratefully.  He  seemed  so  true  and 
honorable.  She  turned  away  that  he  might  not  see  her 
tears. 

"I  am  dog  tired,  Tommy,  and  I'll  be  glad,  too,  when  It's 
all  over." 

Mrs.  Hereford  was  a  true  musician,  and  her  husband 
loved  her  talent.  When  she  came  to  Waybrook  after  her 
marriage  she  found  the  beautiful  music  room  he  had  cre- 
ated waiting  for  her.  Hereford  had  copied  it  from  a  villa 
near  Cremona  in  Italy.  The  woodwork  lining  the  walls  had 
been  brought  to  this  American  house  from  a  music  room 
whose  traditions  were  hundreds  of  years  old.  Besides 
modern  instruments — a  phonograph,  a  harp,  and  two 
grand  pianos  looking  at  each  other  from  the  opposite  ends 
of  the  room — rare  instruments  hung  on  the  walls.  Before 
the  windows  leading  out  on  the  porches,  fell  curtains  of 
Renaissance  brocade.  The  room  was  rich  in  tone  and  full 
of  shadow  and  charm.  The  lady  of  the  house  had  seen 
Captain  Ramsay  alone  in  this  room  for  the  first  time  one 
evening  when  a  guest  in  the  smoking  room  beyond  had 
been  telling  a  ghost  story. 

She  and  Captain  Ramsay  had  played  "Manon,"  "But- 
terfly," and  Irish  songs  to  make  a  thrilling  accompaniment 
for  a  thrilling  tale,  but  more  sincerely  to  cover  what 
Ramsay  was  saying  to  her  in  his  young,  eager  voice  with 
his  young,  eager  feelings. 

As  Helen  Hereford  now  came  quickly  in  the  music 
room  past  midnight  she  found  it  was  still  as  death  and  it 
seemed  to  her  as  nearly  ominous. 

She  walked  softly  over  the  thick  rugs.  The  black  panel- 
ing of  the  walls  made  a  striking  background  for  her  figure 
in  white  evening  dress.  From  one  of  the  windows  through 
which  streamed  October  moonlight,  the  curtains  were 
drawn;  and  the  night,  suggesting  only  beauty  and  peace, 
did  not  seem  a  proper  setting  for  the  story  of  a  crime. 
During  the  war  she  had  often  stood  in  this  window  think- 
ing of  Jack  Hereford  and  his  friend  flying  over  the 
enemy's  lines.  She  had  looked  forward  with  interest  to 
seeing  and  knowing  this  brave  man.  How  little  she  had 
imagined  there  would  ever  be  a  moment  like  this! 


20  THE   WEEK-END   GUEST 

How  cruel  Ralph's  need  of  money  must  have  been  in 
order  to  have  brought  him  so  low  as  this !  Jack  had  told 
her  that  Ramsay  was  as  poor  as  a  rat — with  never  a  cent 
in  his  pocket — but  Ralph  himself  had  told  her  more  that 
very  afternoon  when  she  had  seen  in  the  bitterness  on  his 
face  a  record  of  his  cruel  life. 

Then  he  had  acknowledged  being  a  castaway  and  a 
vagabond.  Had  he  not  called  himself  an  adventurer? 
The  fact  that  he  had  rushed  out  of  the  house  was  against 
him.  She  did  not  believe  that  he  would  come  here,  and 
if  he  did  not,  she  would  keep  his  miserable  secret  as  she 
would  keep  secret  his  kisses  which  she  could  not  efface. 

At  the  sound  of  steps  on  the  veranda  she  went  hurriedly 
to  the  window  to  open  it  herself.  As  she  turned  the  handle 
of  the  French  window,  Ramsay  came  in,  dressed  just  as  he 
was  when  he  had  gone  out  that  morning  to  fetch  the 
grapes,  in  white  flannel  and  white  shoes.  Her  first  ex- 
pression was  maternal  as  she  saw  him. 

"You  will  catch  a  terrible  cold.  You  must  be  fright- 
fully cold !  I  am  going  to  fetch  you  something  to  drink. 
There  is  whisky  in  the  smoking  room." 

Ramsay's  face  was  white  and  drawn.  He  came  out  in 
the  room  only  a  little  beyond  the  window,  his  back 
against  the  red  and  gold  Renaissance  curtain.  It  framed 
him  with  its  long  lines  falling  behind  him.  He  seemed 
to  stand  between  in  the  folds. 

"Please!"  he  said.     "Don't  get  me  anything." 

He  might  have  been  embroidered  on  the  satin  of  the 
curtains.  He  was  moveless  and  beautiful  in  his  pallor 
and  silence;  nevertheless  he  was  only  a  modern  figure, 
a  modern  man. 

"How  could  you?  How  could  you?"  she  breathed.  "I 
did  not  think  you  would  come  to-night  and  yet  I  hoped 
you  would" — and  she  felt  her  voice  desert  her — "and 
explain." 

He  repeated  the  word  "explain"  with  a  laugh. 

"I  came  back  because  I  wanted  to  see  you — for  no  other 
reason." 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  passionate  gesture  as  though 
she  would  dismiss  her  memories  and  his. 


MARIE   VAN  VORST  21 

"To  see  me  again!  What  can  this  matter?"  In  spite 
of  herself  she  cried,  "How  horrible!  How  horrible!"  and 
she  covered  her  face. 

He  understood  that  she  hated  herself  because  he  had 
taken  her  in  his  arms.  He  looked  quietly  at  her  from 
his  greater  height,  and  his  expression  did  not  indicate  that 
all  day  he  had  been  wandering  like  a  hunted  animal. 

"This  is  the  most  dreadful  thing  that  has  ever  come  into 
my  life!    Oh!   Why  did  you  come  back?"  she  cried. 

"To  see  you — just  to  see  you." 

There  was  a  silence  between  them  for  a  second,  and  the 
clock  in  the  hall  outside  struck  one.     Ramsay  said: 

"You  are  sick  with  disgust.  You  are  full  of  regret 
at — our  love." 

"You  thmk  of  that  first!  You  think  of  that  first  of 
all!" 

"First — second — last  and  above  everything." 

"After  what  I  saw  this  morning  every  word  like  that  is 
an  insult,"  Mrs.  Hereford  said. 

Ramsay  came  forward  and  caught  her  hands,  saying 
tensely: 

"And  the  look  I  saw  on  your  face  to-day  when  you 
came  in  the  gift  room?  You  use  the  word  insult.  What 
was  the  look  I  saw  on  your  face  when  you  came  into  the 
room?" 

She  murmured:  "Explain,  you  must  explain,  you  must!" 

He  let  her  hands  fall. 

"I  have  nothing  to  explain." 

"You  knew  I  was  poor.  A  poor  man  has  debts — 
gambling  debts  perhaps.  Then  there  are  women  in  men's 
lives  who  make  dreadful  scandals — there  is  blackmail. 
A  chap  does  things  in  desperation  and  is  not  all  bad.  I 
have  known  men  to  do  such  things.  But  from  the 
moment  I  saw  that  look  on  your  face  to-day,  the  look 
which  said  you  thought  I  was  a  thief,  the  world  stopped 
for  me."  He  threw  back  his  head  and  gave  a  little  laugh. 
"It  will  never  go  on  as  it  was  before." 

Here  she  put  out  her  hand  as  if  about  to  take  his,  but 
let  it  fall. 

"I've  nothing  to  explain.     The  fact  that  for  the  tenth 


22  THE   WEEK-END    GUEST 

of  a  second  you  believed  me  a  thief  makes  everything  else 
of  no  value.  Of  course  now" — there  was  a  break  in  his 
voice — "you  don't  even  believe  in  my  love!"  His  voice 
was  low,  but  there  was  a  ring  in  it  that  she  never  forgot. 
"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  any  more.  I've  tramped 
with  that  horror  all  day. 

"Ever  since  I  was  a  kid  I  have  had  a  hard  time.  I  have 
gone  to  all  lengths  in  time  of  stress.  I  have  been  in  all 
parts  of  the  globe  after  adventures,  but  this  is  the  sad- 
dest adventure  of  them  all.  My  heart  stopped  when  I  saw 
that  look  on  your  face." 

He  stood  straight  as  an  arrow,  fine  as  a  lance;  his  figure 
once  more  was  immovable  against  the  curtain,  and  he 
looked  like  the  picture  up  in  her  room,  but  the  smile  was 
gone. 

"Aly  things  are  all  in  the  station.  Before  your  clock 
strikes  again  I  shall  be  gone.  Think  of  me  as  you  will, 
but  you  can't  believe  that  I  did  not  love  you.  That  you 
can't  believe!" 

^  She  would  have  given  much  to  think  him  innocent.  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  murmuring: 

"Oh — you  better  just  go — you  better  just  go." 

He  looked  around  the  dark,  paneled  room  where  the 
shadows  gathered  like  ghosts  ready,  when  he  should  go, 
to  haunt  Waybrook;  and  as  she  stood  with  her  hands 
across  her  eyes,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  upon 
her  hair,  upon  the  hand  covering  her  eyes,  and  upon  her 
lips.  He  opened  the  window  and  she  heard  him  say, 
"Good-by!  Good-by!"  and  only  stirred  when  she  felt 
the  cold  night  air  rushing  in  upon  her. 

She  found  herself  clinging  to  the  curtain,  her  face 
buried  in  its  folds.  She  might  have  been  a  night  moth 
blown  there  as  she  clung  and  shook,  the  heavy  curtain 
wrapping  her  round.  Ramsay  had  drawn  her  toward  the 
window  as  if  he  wanted  to  take  her  with  him  into  a  world 
which  had  treated  him  not  any  too  well !  She  came  to 
herself  as  the  clock  struck,  realizing  that  she  was  part 
of  a  household  whose  conventions  would  not  stand  for  the 
lady  of  the  house  wandering  about  at  dawn  through  the 
lower  rooms  without  excuse ! 


MARIE    VAN  VORST  23 

She  passed  her  hands  over  her  face  to  wipe  away  not 
the  kisses  of  an  hour  before,  but  the  marks  of  tears;  and 
drew  the  curtains  to  shut  out  with  the  moonlight  the 
figure  of  the  man  who  had  disappeared  into  the  night. 
Then  she  left  the  music  room,  intending  to  go  upstairs. 
She  remembered  what  Cynthia  Moore  had  said  that  morn- 
ing about  the  Earl  of  Moray  and  the  line  of  the  Persian 
proverb:  "Honor  and  Dishonor  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
Beloved." 

On  the  first  step  of  the  staircase  she  stopped  to  look 
toward  the  smoking  room  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  and 
she  saw  a  line  of  light  under  the  doorway.  Her  first 
thought  was  that  Ramsay  had  hidden  there,  and  as  she 
crossed  the  hall  she  realized  that  she  wanted  him  to  be 
there — she  ivantcd  him  to  be  there! 

In  one  of  the  entirely  comfortable  chairs,  his  hand  shad- 
ing his  eyes,  an  open  book  on  his  knee,  unconscious  of 
midnight  rendezvous,  her  husband  was  sitting.  He  turned 
round  and  rose  as  his  wife  came  in,  and  she  saw,  although 
grave  and  stern,  he  was  impersonal  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned. 

"Hello,  Nell!  Couldn't  sleep,  just  as  I  couldn't,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

She  wondered  if  it  was  possible  that  he  had  heard  her 
in  the  music  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

She  came  over  to  him. 

"Two  o'clock.  Tommy;  terribly  late!" 

Hereford  drew  over  the  other  big  chair. 

"Since  you  are  up,  Nell,  sit  out  a  bit  longer  with  me, 
will  you.'"' 

He  would  think  she  had  been  weeping  at  losing  Patricia, 
no  doubt  imagine  that  she  had  come  directly  from  Pa- 
tricia's room.     He  said: 

"The  little  girl  zvill  leave  an  empty  place  and  we  are 
going  to  be  awfully  lonely.  We'll  have  to  go  on  a  new 
honeymoon  trip,  Nell!" 

Mrs.  Hereford  sank  down  in  her  chair  and  tried  to 
smile. 

"Have  you  been  mourning  here  all  the  evening  for 
Patricia,  Tommy:" 


24  THE   WEEK-END    GUEST 

"No,  only  been  down  about  half  an  hour." 

He  smoked  without  looking  at  her,  and  again  she  won- 
dered whether  it  were  possible  that  he  knew  she  had  been 
in  the  other  room  with  Ralph. 

"I've  been  in  the  music  room  for  some  time.  It  was 
full  of  memories  of  our  jolly  times,  of  dances,  of  Patricia's 
coming-out  ball." 

But  Hereford  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  what  she  said. 
His  face  had  settled  into  the  harsh  gravity  and  look  of  dis- 
pleasure that  she  always  connected  with  his  son. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Tommy,  tell  me?" 

"The  old  story— Jack !" 

Mrs.  Hereford,  with  a  breath  of  keen  relief,  put  her 
hand  on  his  knees,  and  sat  back  in  her  chair. 

"Poor  Tommy !  It  must  be  something  perfectly  terrible 
for  you  to  look  as  you  look  and  to  sit  here  like  this  half 
the  night." 

"It  is  the  worst." 

"What  is  it.?     Tell  me." 

"Blackmail!" 

And  clear  as  ice  came  to  her  the  remembrance  of  Ram- 
say's words:  "There  are  zuonien  in  men's  lives  who  make 
dreadful  scandals  for  them.     There  is  blackmail — " 

"It  is  a  relief  to  speak  to  you,  Nell.  When  Jack  was  at 
Cambridge  he  got  mixed  up  with  the  worst  kind  of  woman 
and  made  some  sort  of  marriage  with  her.  Drunk,  of 
course.  She  has  trailed  him  ever  since,  followed  him 
even  to  France;  been  bleeding  him  to  death.  The  money 
you  and  I  have  given  him  has  gone  to  her.  He's  been 
keeping  her  quiet  until  now.  He  told  me  this  last  night, 
here  in  this  room,  and  he  asked  for  money  to  shut  her  up, 
as  she  threatened  on  Patricia's  wedding  day  to  give  out  a 
flashy  story  to  the  newspapers  and  drag  us  all  in." 

Mrs.  Hereford  never  stirred. 

"I  fairly  kicked  him  out  of  the  house,"  her  husband 
said.     He  heard  her  ask: 

"But  you  refused  to  give  him  money?" 

"Yes,  and  I  told  him  all  the  newspapers  in  the  United 
States  could  print  his  story  if  they  liked.  It  was  his  own 
life!" 


MARIE   VAN  VORST  25 

Mrs.  Hereford  half  rose,  murmuring: 

"Oh,  and  he  needed  money  like  that!  Tommy,  like  that, 
and  you  didn't  give  it  to  him?" 

"I  told  him  if  he  went  to  you  or  Patricia  I  would  disin- 
herit him.  I  told  him  to  get  his  lawyer.  It  was  up  to  him. 
If  you  begin  to  give  to  blackmail  you  are  lost.  Let  him 
take  what  is  coming  to  him — he  has  made  his  own  life!" 

She  gave  a  cry,  sank  more  deeply  into  her  chair,  and 
burst  into  tears,  her  head  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Her 
husband  bent  over,  reassuring  her,  telling  her  not  to 
worry;  Jack  would  get  a  lawyer  and  he  had  been  a  brute 
to  tell  her  when  she  was  so  utterly  done  up  and  tired. 

But  she  had  broken  down  under  the  strain  of  fatigue, 
emotion,  and  passion  greater,  at  last,  than  her  control. 

She  tried  to  pull  herself  together,  to  control  her  grief. 
She  would  wire  Ramsay  to-morrow,  she  would  ask  his 
pardon.  To  her  now  it  was  clear  as  day.  Oh,  it  was 
clear!  But  Ralph  would  never  forgive  her — never  in  the 
world.  She  heard  her  husband  go  over  to  a  little  cup- 
board in  the  wall  where  drinks  were  kept;  she  heard  the 
snap  of  the  soda-bottle  cork  like  a  little  shot. 

There  was  nothing  she  could  say  to  her  husband.  Her 
passion  for  Ramsay  had  protected  his  son.  Hereford 
would  never  know  anything  of  the  theft  or  anything  of  her 
false  suspicion. 

"Honor  and  dishonor  had  been  in  her  hands !" 

Her  husband  came  back  with  a  refreshing  drink  for  her, 
and  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  made  her  swallow 
it,  and  then  he  drew  her  up  with  great  gentleness. 

"It  is  nearly  morning,"  he  said,  "and  we  have  a  busy 
day  before  us.  Brace  up,  old  girl!"  He  kissed  her  on  her 
hair. 

Mrs.  Hereford  looked  up  at  him  through  her  tears. 
First  of  all,  her  husband's  honor  had  been  given  to  her  for 
keeping.  How  ruthlessly  she  had  torn  it  and  thrown  it 
away ! 

Hereford  put  his  arm  around  her.  She  needed  his  sup- 
port, and  they  went  out,  side  by  side,  past  the  music  room, 
where  the  ghostly  shadows  gathered  in  the  four  corners, 
only  waiting  to  take  possession. 


The  American  Magazine 

THE  TERRIBLE  CHARGE  AGAINST 
JEFF  POTTER 

BY 

SAMUEL  A.  DERIEUX 


THE  TERRIBLE  CHARGE  AGAINST 
JEFF  POTTER ' 

By  SAAIUEL  A.  DERIEUX 

IT  was  Saturday  night  and  raining  hard  when  Frank 
Blainey  pushed  through  the  group  of  farmers  gathered 
about  Jeff  Potter  and  ordered  the  old  man  out  of  the  store. 
There  were  three  indictments  according  to  Frank's  angry 
arraignment:  First,  that  old  Jeff  hadn't  spent  twenty 
dollars  in  the  store  In  the  last  two  years;  second,  that  he 
tracked  in  mud  and  whittled  shavings  on  the  floor;  and, 
third,  that  women  didn't  like  to  come  where  he  was. 

As  for  the  first,  well,  old  Jeff  didn't  have  much  money 
to  spend,  and  consequently  didn't  spend  It;  as  for  the 
second,  having  no  women  at  home,  and  putting  in  a  good 
share  of  his  time  in  the  river  swamp,  Jeff  wasn't  as  care- 
ful about  mud  and  shavings  as  he  might  have  been;  as 
for  the  third — that  started  him  stuttering  so  he  could 
hardly  get  the  question  out. 

"W-w-what  women?" 

It  was  Frank  Blainey  who  flushed  now,  but  he  went  on. 
He  v/as  a  lanky  young  fellow,  his  face  a  bit  narrow,  his 
eyes  set  a  trille  close  together.  Flaving  started  the  row 
he  was  just  the  kind  of  man  to  see  It  through,  especially 
where  Jeff  was  concerned,  for  who  minded  old  Jeff  Potter? 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  what  women!"  he  cried, 
face  white  now,  eyes  blazing.  "I  don't  want  to  argue  this 
case  and  I  don't  propose  to.  This  is  my  store,  and  I  tell 
you  to  get  out  and  stay  out.  That's  all  Fve  got  to  say, 
and  all  Fm  going  to  say!" 

Then  old  Jeff  went  crazy,  saw  red.  You  see,  It  was  all 
so   sudden.     For   twenty   years   he   had   been   loafing   in 

^  Copyright  by  The  American  Magazine. 


30         CHARGE   AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

here — ever  since  his  wife  died.  This  had  been  his  place 
when  Sam  Blainey,  father  of  Frank,  was  aUve  and  ran 
the  store.  Here,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  he  had  slipped, 
secretly,  many  a  stick  of  candy,  yellow  candy  with  red 
stripes,  to  the  youngsters  who  stood  about  while  parents 
shopped.  Here,  out  of  the  soft  pine  of  dry-goods  boxes, 
he  had  carved  many  an  Indian,  while  the  children  crowded 
about,  then  gone  out  in  the  woods,  children  following,  and 
colored  the  Indians  red  with  poke-berry  juice.  Here,  at 
nights,  he  had  told  those  bigger  children,  the  fathers, 
about  where  fish  were  biting  now  in  the  river,  about 
how  wild  turkeys  were  moving  from  one  section  of  the 
swamp  to  another,  about  the  best  kind  of  caller  to  get 
them  in  range.  For  that  was  the  only  kind  of  thing  old 
Jeff  knew,  except  that  children  loved  candy  and  carved 
Indians,  and  that  in  a  general  way  folks  ought  to  tote  fair 
with  one  another. 

But  to  come  back — it  was  all  sudden  and  Jeff  saw  red. 
Bill  Carson,  a  farmer,  burly  and  powerful,  grabbed  him 
and  shoved  him  back.  He  wouldn't  have  had  any  show, 
anyway,  with  Frank  Blainey.  His  old  heart  was  far 
stouter  than  his  biceps.     All  this  Bill  Carson  knew. 

"Come  on,  Jeff,"  he  was  saying.  "Yes,  that's  all  right 
now,  you  come  with  me.  We'll  talk  about  it  out  here  in 
the  road." 

And  so  it  was  that  Jeff  found  himself  out  in  the  road, 
with  the  rain  beating  in  his  face,  and  Bill  Carson  towering 
above  him. 

"Let  me  go,  Bill,"  he  was  pleading.  "Let  me  go  back 
an'  smash  his  face.  Just  once.  Bill,  just  once.  That  wife 
of  hisn  is  the  'women'  he's  talkin'  about.  I  know.  Bill. 
Once  in  the  ol'  days,  when  Sam  Blainey  was  livin'  an' 
runnin'  the  sto',  befo'  her  an'  Frank  married,  she  come  in. 
I  didn't  know  there  was  any  lady  aroun',  an'  I  said  'damn' 
or  somethin'.  She  heerd  me  an'  went  out,  head  high,  an' 
said  she  never  would  come  back  agin.  She  tol'  all  the 
women  about  what  I  had  said.  She's  pizen  pious.  Bill: 
you  know  her.  She  brought  hit  up  in  the  ladies'  mission- 
ary society — said  there  was  heathens  livin'  right  around 
'em.     Meanin'  me.     Bill,  listen,  let  me  go  back!" 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  31 

"No,"  said  Carson,  "you  better  go  home  now,  Jeff. 
He'll  be  sorry  he  done  it." 

"He'll  be  enough  sight  sorrier  if  I  smash  his  face!  Who 
is  he,  anyhow?  A  scrub  pup  from  his  fine  ol'  daddy's 
breed!  He  was  fired  from  college — for  cheatin',  too.  He's 
a  sneak  now.  You  know  as  well  as  me  that  ever'  Saturday 
he  sends  that  wife  of  hisn  to  visit  her  folks  across  the 
river,  then  sneaks  off  to  town  hisself  an'  has  a  good  time 
on  the  sly.  Only  las'  Sunday,  when  that  poker  club  in 
town  was  pulled,  he  was  one  of  the  men  they  caught. 
Oh,  he  hushed  it  up,  him  an'  his  town  friends,  but  he  was 
one.  I  know.  Bill.  Jim  Ryan,  he's  my  friend,  he's  one 
of  the  cops  that  done  it.  He  come  out  here  to  hunt  with 
me  las'  Tuesday,  an'  he  tol'  me  about  it.  I  never  opened 
my  mouth  about  it  to  nobody — I  never  would  have, 
either.  But  let  me  go  now,  an'  I'll  face  him  with  it.  I'll 
tell  him—" 

"No,  no,"  said  Carson  kindly,  with  the  indulgence  of 
the  strong.  "There's  a  woman  in  there,  Sam  Raine's  wife. 
You  don't  want  to  raise  a  row  befo'  her,  do  you?  You'll 
be  justify  in'  what  Frank  said.  Go  on  home  now,  ol'  man, 
an'  go  to  bed." 

And  in  humiliation  and  sorrow  old  Jeff  went — went  be- 
cause there  wasn't  anything  else  for  him  to  do.  Anger  is 
a  violent  intoxicant:  you  forget  your  troubles  while  the 
rage  lasts,  you  do  not  care  for  past  or  future.  Old  Jeff 
Potter  would  have  been  happier  this  night  if  he  could  have 
stayed  angry. 

But  sitting  late  into  the  night  by  the  smoky  lamp  on  the 
table,  he  had  forgotten  his  anger,  he  had  forgotten  every- 
thing except  that  he  couldn't  go  to  the  store  any  more.  He 
had  loved  it  in  the  old  days  when  Sam  Blainey,  dead  now, 
ran  it,  and  the  lazier  men  of  a  lazier  era  gathered  around 
the  rusty,  pot-bellied  stove.  Then  he  had  come  to  love 
the  new  regime,  after  Frank  painted  the  store  all  over 
inside  and  out;  he  had  loved  the  bright  acetylene  lights 
and  the  shiny  new  base-burner,  and  the  Saturday  night 
crowds.  He  didn't  ask  much  of  life,  he  never  had — just 
a  roof  over  his  head,  a  place  to  hunt,  a  store  to  loaf  in, 


32  CHARGE   AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

where  he  could  see  men  and  women  and  children  and  hear 
them  talk.  And  now  one  of  these,  the  one  that  was  grow- 
ing dearer  as  he  grew  older,  had  been  taken  away. 

For  a  moment  the  old  man's  helpless  anger  flared  up 
like  an  echo. 

"I  ought  to  have  smashed  his  face!"  he  muttered. 

But  when  he  rose  and  fumbled  about  on  the  mantel- 
piece, among  bits  of  soft  pine  and  half  carved  Indians, 
for  his  pipe,  his  hands  were  trembling,  and  so  was  the 
match  he  held  to  the  bowl;  while  outside  the  rain,  ever 
increasing,  splashed  from  the  eaves  and  dashed  against 
the  window,  as  if  his  cabin  were  some  sub-sea  shelter  in 
the  midst  of  a  roaring  ocean. 

It  was  this  continued  deluge  that  waked  him  up  two 
hours  later  with  the  thought  that  the  river  would  rise 
and  with  the  fear  that  the  herd  of  blooded  cattle  ranging 
in  the  swamp — the  cattle  belonging  to  Squire  Kirby,  his 
landlord — would  drown.  It  brought  him  thumping  sud- 
denly out  of  bed  and  made  him  light  the  lamp.  Twelve, 
declared  the  hands  of  a  gingerbread  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"I  better  see  about  them  cattle,"  he  said. 

Now,  tending  cattle  wasn't  part  of  his  contract  with 
Squire  Kirby.  A  bale  of  cotton  a  year  rent  for  the  little 
farm  he  lived  on  was.  But  the  bale  was  seldom  forth- 
coming. It  was  such  a  long  way  to  the  end  of  a  cotton 
row,  and  what  excitement  was  there  waiting  for  you  when 
you  got  there?  You  just  had  to  turn  round  and  hoe  to 
the  end  of  another  row. 

"All  right,"  Kirby  had  said,  over  and  over;  "if  you  can't 
pay,  you  can't,  Jeff.  You  just  bring  me  an  Injun  or  two 
to  send  to  my  grandchildren  for  Christmas  an'  we'll  call  it 
squar'." 

So  the  Indian  or  two,  or  half  a  dozen  of  them,  had  come 
to  be  his  rent.  For  the  rest,  he  did  look  after  the  cattle 
whenever  he  happened  to  be  in  the  swamp,  and  Kirby 
always  had  the  pick  of  his  string  of  fish  and  bag  of  game. 

Now,  listening  shrewdly  to  the  ever-increasing  rain,  he 
dressed  and  picked  up  his  lantern.  Then  he  blew  out 
the  lamp  and  plunged  into  the  storm.  Bent  double 
against  wind  and  rain,  lantern  unlighted,  because  he  loved 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  33 

to  find  his  way  in  the  dark,  he  hurried  across  the  field. 
Just  before  he  reached  the  main  road  he  stopped.  Along 
that  road  splashed  three  or  four  negroes,  a  lantern  be- 
tween them. 

"Dat  you,  Mr.  Jeff  Potter?"  one  of  them  called. 

But  he  did  not  answer.  They  were  Kirby's  hands; 
they  might  want  to  go  with  him;  they  would  be  more 
trouble  than  they  were  worth;  he  would  have  to  be  pulling 
them,  instead  of  cattle,  out  of  the  swamp  before  he  got 
through.  They  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  on,  mum- 
bling to  one  another.     Old  Jeff  grinned. 

"When  they  git  home,"  he  chuckled,  "they'll  be  tellin' 
folks  they  seen  a  ha'nt." 

An  eighth  of  a  mile  before  he  came  to  Blainey's  store  he 
turned  off  into  a  narrow  wood  road  seldom  used.  He 
could  see  pretty  well  in  the  dark,  old  Jeff  could,  but  he 
wasn't  looking  for  anything  like  this — he  almost  ran  into 
the  car  that  stood  there  in  the  road ! 

He  lit  his  lantern  now  and  glance  '  all  around.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  streaming  woods.  He  went  to  the  car, 
pulled  aside  the  curtains  that  were  fastened  down,  and 
peered  in.  The  seats  were  empty.  All  excited,  he  went 
back  to  the  rear  and  squatted  down.  The  lantern  light 
shone  on  the  number  and  lettering  of  the  license.  It  was 
a  city  car.  He  got  out  of  his  inside  breastpocket  a 
frazzled  notebook,  a  sort  of  diary,  in  which  he  jotted  down 
bits  of  wood  lore  and  queer  things  he  saw  as  he  went 
about.  From  inside  the  leaves  he  took  a  stub  pencil,  and 
set  down  the  number  of  that  car,  and  the  date  on  which 
he  had  seen  it. 

After  he  had  gone  away  he  looked  back.  There  it  was, 
big  and  long  and  silent.  He  hurried  along  through  the 
thicket,  across  the  field,  and  into  the  big  woods  of  the 
swamp.  Yes,  the  river  was  up.  The  lantern  glistened 
on  water  where  no  water  ought  to  be.  Into  it  he  splashed, 
up  to  his  ankles,  up  to  his  knees,  the  trunks  of  trees  com- 
ing forward  toward  him,  then  slipping  back  in  silent  pro- 
cession, the  shadows  cast  by  the  lantern  darting  here  and 
there  in  the  flooded  woods,  or  moving  about  like  enormous 
black  clubs  above  his  head. 


34  CHARGE    AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

He  was  thoroughly  alarmed  now — alarmed  for  Kirby's 
cattle.  A  mile  ahead  was  a  high  bit  of  ground,  which 
they  would  make  for  and  be  safe  if  they  sensed  the  danger 
of  rising  water  and  started  in  time.  If  they  hadn't — well, 
he  would  just  have  to  round  up  as  many  as  he  could  and 
drive  them  that  way.  The  water  was  up  to  his  waist  now; 
still  he  kept  on,  holding  the  lantern  high.  If  he  had  not 
known  by  heart  every  inch  of  the  ground  he  would  have 
stepped  off  into  water  over  his  head.  But  he  knew  how  to 
keep  to  the  ridges;  he  could  even  feel  his  way  across  a 
footlog  covered  by  water;  and  after  a  while,  all  out  of 
breath,  he  made  out  the  high  ground  through  the  trees. 
The  shine  of  the  lantern  long  before  he  reached  this  haven 
showed  the  sleek  sides  and  gleaming  eyes  of  cattle  huddled 
together. 

"That's  it,  boys  an'  gals !"  he  yelled.  "You  knowed 
more'n  I  'lowed  you  did!  You  still  got  some  brains  lef 
in  yo'  thick  flat  heads !" 

He  was  among  them  now,  slapping  their  flanks,  calling 
them  by  name,  shoving  them  about  familiarly  to  see  if 
they  were  all  here.  Off  to  the  side  was  a  shed  built  by 
fishermen  with  a  rough  fireplace  and  chimney  at  one  end. 
Here  he  built  a  fire,  pulled  off  his  wet  trousers  and  socks 
and  hung  them  up  to  dry.  Then  he  raked  together  for  a 
bed  some  straw  which  fishermen  had  used  to  sit  on.  His 
eyes  in  the  firelight  were  bright  now.  This  was  the  kind 
of  thing  he  liked. 

It  was  a  deep  sleep  he  fell  into,  so  deep  that  he  did  not 
see  through  the  forest  an  ever  expanding  glow  in  the  sky; 
he  did  not  hear  the  restless  animals  moving  about  as  in 
vague  terror;  he  did  not  hear  out  in  the  farm  lands  that 
bordered  the  swamp  the  excited  crowing  of  cocks,  as  if 
some  strange  day  had  dawned. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  he  woke,  got  into  his  damp 
trousers  and  shoes  and  started  back.  It  was  pitch  black. 
The  waters  had  gone  down  somewhat,  still  he  had  to  wade 
out.     Clear  of  the  swamp,  he  blew  out  the  lantern. 

When  he  came  to  the  patch  of  woods  where  he  had  seen 
the  car  he  stopped — there  was  no  car  here  now!  He 
struck  a  match  and  held  it  close  to  the  ground  to  make 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  35 

sure  it  had  not  been  a  vision.  There  were  the  tracks 
where  it  had  entered  the  woods,  and  others  where  it  had 
been  driven  out  again.  He  raised  his  head  and  sniffed  the 
air.  There  was  a  strange  smell  abroad,  as  if  the  woods 
had  been  burned  off  in  the  night.  Wondering  what  it 
could  mean,  he  started  on  home. 

Day  was  dawning  as  he  passed  Squire  Kirby's,  and 
Jake,  Kirby's  negro  hand  who  fed  the  mules  and  horses, 
was  just  entering  the  yard.  In  the  dim  light  Jake  looked 
quickly  at  him,  then  stopped. 

"Dat  you,  Mr.  Jeff  Potter?"  he  demanded. 

There  was  something  strange  in  Jake's  voice,  and  in 
his  face  too.  Old  Jeff  thought  about  it  as  he  splashed 
along  the  road  home. 

"Jake  must  'a'  thought  I  was  a  ha'nt  too,"  he  chuckled. 

He  did  not  hear  the  news  until  nearly  midday.  Worn 
out,  he  had  fallen  asleep  across  the  bed  on  reaching  home 
and  had  not  waked  until  after  nine.  Then  he  had  wound 
up  the  clock,  got  his  lonely  breakfast,  and  made  a  shift  of 
tidying  up  his  room.  After  that,  he  went  outside.  The 
weather  had  cleared;  it  was  a  bland  winter  day  of  the 
South,  with  the  drenched  straw  fields  and  woods  sparkling 
in  the  sun.  He  wandered  aimlessly  around  his  yard  a 
while,  and  finallv  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  front  of  his 
cabin,  and  lit  his  pipe.  He  did  not  notice  that  the  negroes 
in  front  of  that  other  cabin  across  the  field  were  looking 
curiously  his  way. 

He  was  very  lonely  now.  The  excitement  of  the  night 
had  passed.  Usually  on  Sunday  mornings  like  this  he 
went  to  Blainey's  store,  where  others  gathered — except 
when  there  was  preaching — out  in  front  and  on  the  porch. 
They  would  be  gathering  there  now,  talking  about  him, 
aiKi  about  the  row  last  night.  As  for  him,  so  long  as  he 
lived,  he  could  never  go  there  again. 

And  so  he  was  brooding  when  Bill  Carson  came  along 
the  old  field  road.  Bill's  face  was  grave  and  he  was 
hurrying.  As  he  turned  into  the  yard  Jeff  rose,  his  heart 
suddenly  pounding. 

"Jeff,  ain't  you  heard,  man?" 


36         CHARGE    AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

"Heerd  what,  Bill?" 

"Frank  Blainey's  store  burned  down  at  two  o'clock  las' 
night!" 

Off  yonder  across  the  field  old  Jeff  was  suddenly  con- 
scious that  the  negroes  were  looking  his  way;  and  in  Car- 
son's eyes  he  saw  a  close,  narrow,  searching  scrutiny. 

"Come  on  inside,"  said  Carson. 

And  inside,  half  dazed,  Jeff  heard.  Folks — some  folks 
— said  he  did  it.  The  Blaineys  especially.  Frank  was 
telling  everybody. 

"You  see,  Jeff,"  said  Carson,  gravely,  "some  niggers 
up  here  say  they  saw  you  goin'  toward  the  store  at  mid- 
night. You  didn't  have  any  lantern  lit.  Jake  saw  you 
comin'  back  at  daylight.  They  all  spoke  to  you,  but  you 
didn't  speak  to  them.  An',  Jeff,  every  other  man  aroun' 
here  was  at  that  fire  but  vou !" 

"Bill!"  The  old  man's  voice  was  rising,  "Bill,  tell  me 
as  man  to  man — do  you  believe  I  done  it?" 

Then  Carson  tried  to  quiet  him,  tried  to  evade  the  ques- 
tion, too.  One  thing  was  certain  anyhow — the  woman 
and  children  didn't  believe  it.  "I  just  left  home,  Jeff," 
he  said.  "Aly  wife  an'  the  kids  had  heard  about  it.  They 
say  they  know  you  never  done  it.  They  made  me  come. 
I  left  little  Ella  cryin'.  She  wouldn't  go  to  Sunday- 
school  this  mornin'." 

But  the  old  man  was  not  to  be  put  off.  He  was  lean- 
ing across  the  table  now,  eyes  dilated.  The  fear  of  all 
wild  and  half-wild  creatures — the  fear  of  the  trap — 
was  upon  him.  "Bill!"  he  cried.  "Does  Squire  Kirby 
believe  I  done  it?  Tell  me  the  truth,  man,  for  God- 
A'mighty's  sake!" 

"He  don't  say,  Jeff." 

Over  and  over,  while  Carson  listened,  old  Jeff  described 
his  movements  in  the  swamp  the  night  before.  At  last 
Carson  rose  to  go;  there  was  pity  in  his  eyes  now  in  the 
presence  of  the  old  man's  excitement. 

"You  just  stick  aroun'  the  house  to-day,"  he  said 
kindly.  "If  you  go  where  folks  are  they'll  start  you 
talkin'." 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  37 

And  old  Jeff  stayed  at  home.  At  first  it  was  hard,  for 
there  was  panic  in  his  heart.  He  wanted  to  know  what 
was  going  on  beyond  those  woods  that  separated  him  from 
the  more  thickly  settled  part  of  the  community.  All 
morning,  anxiously,  he  watched  the  road  that  led  from  the 
main  thoroughfare  to  his  cabin.  Then  after  dinner,  no 
one  having  come  along  the  road,  and  his  mind  having 
grown  weary  of  its  own  anxiety,  he  bethought  him  of 
little  Ella  Carson,  who  had  cried,  and  who  wouldn't  go  to 
Sunday-school  because  they  said  he  burned  the  store. 
And  he  went  into  the  cabin,  and  from  underneath  the 
table  picked  out  a  piece  of  white  pine  boxing. 

"I'll  carve  her  an  Injun,"  he  said.     "An  Injun  gal." 

And  with  the  thought  came  relief.  Hours  he  worked, 
sitting  outside  his  cabin  on  the  bench,  while  the  shavings, 
ever  finer  drawn,  accumulated  at  his  feet  and  the  form- 
less fragment  of  dry-goods  box  took  shape.  Now  and 
then  he  whetted  his  keen  multibladed  knife;  now  and 
then,  all  oblivious,  he  held  the  work  up  for  his  critical 
inspection. 

Even  the  nose  and  chin  he  carved  to  a  nicety,  holding 
the  little  figure  close,  smiling  at  it  now  and  then,  the  while 
his  mind,  running  ahead,  saw  the  completed  work.  She 
should  have  hair  from  the  tip  of  a  black  mink's  tail;  stain 
from  a  pokeberry  bush  would  color  her;  he  would  strap 
a  tiny  papoose  across  her  back  with  a  bit  of  crimson 
cloth. 

"The  little  gal  will  like  that,"  he  chuckled.  "Yes— 
she'll  like  that!" 

And  as  he  worked,  his  face  now  knotted,  now  serene, 
he  forgot  the  store  and  the  fire,  he  did  not  observe  the 
lengthening  shadows,  he  did  not  feel  the  chill  of  late  after- 
noon. The  sun  had  dropped  low  when  at  last  he  arose 
suddenly  and,  still  oblivious,  started  across  the  field 
toward  the  woods. 

His  old  eyes  burned  with  creative  fires.  This  figure  in 
his  hand  was  the  best  thing  he  had  ever  done.  She  was 
his  humble  masterpiece,  this  Indian  girl  who  had  brought 
him  forgetfulness  in  his  trouble.  She  was  ready  to  be 
colored  now;  but  no  ordinary  pokeberry  stain  would  do 


38         CHARGE  AGAINST  JEFF   POTTER 

for  her.  Deep  in  the  swamp  grew  bushes  whose  berries 
gave  a  finer  and  richer  tint  than  any  close  about.  There 
was  an  eager  smile  on  his  face  as  he  entered  the  woods. 

He  had  not  seen  the  commotion  among  the  watching 
negroes  when  he  rose  and  hurried  across  the  field;  he  had 
not  seen  them  beckoning  to  someone  coming  along  the 
road.  Now,  far  in  the  woods,  he  did  not  hear  the  steps 
behind  him  as  he  pushed  through  the  undergrowth  that 
fringed  the  swamp. 

He  found  the  bush  he  wanted  and  began  his  work.  He 
had  stained  her  to  the  waist,  a  rich,  dark-red  color;  he 
was  all  intent  on  his  task,  when  he  heard  the  rustle  of 
leaves  behind  him,  and  turned.  What  he  saw  made  him 
put  the  figure  quickly  in  his  pocket,  as  if  to  hide  her  from 
those  narrowed  eyes.  For  there,  straight  at  him,  head 
and  shoulders  above  the  bushes,  came  Tom  Kelly,  rural 
policeman. 

''Tryin'  to  git  away,  was  you,  ol'  man?"  grinned  Kelly. 
"Well,  it's  bad  policy,  an'  you're  old  enough  to  know  it." 
Then  solemnly,  with  eyes  still  narrowed,  as  if  within  him 
resided  all  the  dignity  and  all  the  sternness  of  the  law: 
"Fve  got  a  warrant  here  for  you,  swore  out  this  after- 
noon befo'  Magistrate  Kirby  by  Frank  Blainey.  Come 
along  now,  an'  don't  raise  no  trouble." 

It  might  all  have  been  different  if  the  old  man  had 
listened  to  his  friends — to  Squire  Kirby,  who  next  morn- 
ing bound  him  over  to  court,  and  to  Bill  Carson,  who 
went  on  his  bond,  two  thousand  dollars  it  was,  for  hadn't 
he  tried  to  make  a  get-away,  and  hadn't  Frank  Blainey 
bitterly  opposed  turning  him  loose  at  all? 

The  squire  and  Carson,  in  a  conference  after  the  pre- 
liminary trial,  advised  him  to  employ  to  defend  him  Allen 
and  Cathcart,  both  of  them  young,  energetic,  and  highly 
successful  lawyers,  and  offered  between  them  to  advance 
the  money  to  pay  the  bill.  It  wasn't  because  he  doubted 
their  friendship,  or  was  ungrateful,  that  he  did  not  heed 
their  advice.  But  these  lawyers  were  young,  their  minds 
were  taken  up  with  big  affairs.  What  was  an  old  man 
to  them? 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  39 

Then  JefF  had  his  prejudices,  too.  More  than  once, 
when  he  was  in  the  county  seat,  he  had  seen  on  the  win- 
dows of  the  town  skyscraper  the  gilded  sign  of  Allen  and 
Cathcart.  He  had  seen  their  big  cars  and  their  hand- 
some homes  on  Main  Street.  Now,  in  his  extremity,  and 
in  his  ignorance  also,  he  distrusted  them  with  the  poor 
man's  distrust  of  the  ostentatiously  well-to-do.  He  did 
not  want  Allen  and  Cathcart. 

Even  while  Kirby  and  Carson  talked,  his  mind,  in 
relief,  had  turned  to  another  lawyer,  old  like  himself, 
and  neither  rich  nor  ostentatious — old  Colonel  Donald- 
son, whom  Sam  Blainey  used  to  employ  to  look  up  deeds, 
who  had  come  out  one  day  to  fish  with  him  and  Sam. 
This  was  the  lawyer  he  wanted. 

He  said  nothing  about  it;  he  asked  no  one's  advice;  but 
at  four  o'clock  on  the  morning  after  his  release  on  bail 
he  set  out  on  foot  to  the  county  seat,  and  at  nine  o'clock 
presented  himself  at  the  ancient  and  shabby  offices  of 
Colonel  Donaldson  on  Law  Row,  just  behind  the  court- 
house. Heart  pounding  fast,  he  told  his  story  to  the  dry 
and  pedantic  old  lawyer,  who  sat  behind  a  littered  table 
in  a  dingy  room  where  rows  of  dusty  books,  Shake- 
speares,  Miltons,  Thackerays,  Dickenses,  and  Scotts 
climbed  upward  to  the  cobwebby  ceiling. 

Anybody  would  have  told  him  this  was  not  the  man 
to  go  to;  that  it  had  been  years  since  he  appeared  in 
court  in  anything  but  civil  cases;  that  he  might  be  the 
man  to  run  down  an  old  deed,  but  not  to  plead  a  case 
before  a  jury;  that  such  fires  of  youth  as  he  might  have 
possessed — and  it  was  said  that  he  had  known  them  once 
— had  burned  out  long  ago. 

And  yet  old  Jeff,  looking  at  that  thin  old  scholar  sur- 
rounded by  his  books,  trembled  lest  his  case  be  turned 
down;  while  his  friends,  had  they  known,  would  have 
trembled  lest  it  be  accepted.  And  no  one  who  knew  the 
colonel  would  have  dreamed  that  he  would  take  such  a 
case.  It  must  have  been  some  queer  bond  that  exists 
between  old  men  that  moved  him. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  he  said,  dryly,   "I'll  take  the  case. 


40         CHARGE    AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

Yes,  I  recall  Sam  Blainey  quite  distinctly — a  fine  man. 
I  remember  the  fishing  trip  to  which  you  refer." 

He  asked  a  number  of  questions,  rather  wearily,  lean- 
ing back,  tips  of  fingers  together.  His  eyes  under  his 
spectacles,  that  were  dusty  like  his  window  panes,  did 
light  up  just  a  moment  when  his  questions  brought  out 
the  fact  that  Jeff  had  seen  a  car  in  the  woods.  Then 
he  copied  down  the  number  in  a  notebook.  He  would 
look  into  that,  he  said  without  conviction. 

"God  knows  1"  It  broke  from  old  Jeff,  it  was  a  cry 
for  sympathy.     "God  knows  I  never  burned  that  sto'!" 

The  voice  of  the  ancient  lawyer  was  dry  and  unim- 
pressed. "Unfortunately,  in  a  case  of  this  kind  it's  court 
and  jury,  not  the  Almighty,  which  you  have  to  convince. 
.  .  .  The  Indian,  you  say,  you  were  staining  on  that 
afternoon  when  you  were  arrested  in  the  swamp — and  by 
the  way,  sir,  it's  a  bad  thing  to  be  arrested  in  a  swamp — 
have  you  that  Indian  with  you?" 

Trembling,  the  old  man  reached  in  the  pocket  of  his 
ragged  overcoat.  Because  of  some  fear  that  in  his  ab- 
sence his  cabin  would  be  searched,  he  had  brought  his 
treasure  with  him. 

"Here  she  is,  Colonel,"  he  said  eagerly. 

The  lawyer  reached  across  the  table,  took  the  figure, 
and  holding  it  up  looked  at  it  with  a  smile  strangely 
sweet.  Then  he  arose  and  went  over  to  a  rusty  safe  in 
the  corner.  He  put  her  carefully  away  in  the  drawer, 
closed  the  iron  doors  on  her  and  turned  the  combina- 
tion. 

"I'll  just  keep  this,"  he  said.  "And  now  that  will  be 
all  this  morning.  I'll  try  and  arrange  for  your  case  to  be 
called  as  near  the  opening  of  court  as  possible.  Keep 
close  at  home.  And  remember — don't  tell  anybody  any- 
thing." 

He  turned  to  a  shelf  and  got  down  a  volume — probably 
he  had  already  dismissed  the  case  from  his  mind;  and 
Jeff  came  out  into  the  alley,  above  which  towered  the 
walls  of  the  courthouse  where  soon  he  was  to  appear 
before  judge  and  jury,  with  only  that  dry  old  recluse  to 
stand  between  him  and  the  penitentiary. 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  41 

The  terrible  mistake  he  had  made  was  duly  impressed 
on  him  that  night  by  Kirby,  who  drove  over  to  arrange 
to  take  him  to  town  to  consult  Allen  and  Cathcart  in  the 
morning.  Jeff  had  to  admit  now  what  he  had  done, 
and  Kirby  was  dumfounded. 

"You  want  to  go  to  the  pen?"  he  demanded,  pointing 
his  finger  at  his  tenant,  his  white  beard  thrust  belliger- 
ently forward.  "You  think  you'd  like  it  there,  old  man? 
Do  you  know  how  strong  the  evidence  is  against  you? 
Don't  you  know,  Jeff,  I  wouldn't  have  sent  you  up  if  it 
hadn't  been?  Have  you  any  notion  how  slim  yo'  chance 
is?     My  God,  man — old  Donaldson!" 

"He's  smart,  Mr.  Kirby!"  cried  Jeff.  "Ever  seen  his 
books?  Piled  up  to  the  ceilin',  clutterin'  up  the  winders 
and  fireplaces?" 

"An'  what  kind  of  books?  01'  law  books  in  one  room, 
yes.  Novels  an'  po'try  in  the  other!  It  was  the  novels 
an'  po'try  you  saw;  an'  it's  the  novels  an'  po'try  he  reads. 
Jeff,  listen  to  me — what  made  him  take  the  case,  God 
only  knows.  He's  forgot  about  it  by  now.  His  mind  is 
back  on  them  ol'  Romans  an'  centurions.  There's  been 
millions  an'  billions  of  people  in  the  world  he  knows 
about — history  an'  the  like.  What  difference  does  one  ol' 
feller  in  the  pen  make  to  him?  He  was  thinkin'  about 
ancient  Babylon  an'  Sodom  an'  Gomorrah  this  mornin'. 
He  don't  even  know  what  he's  done.  He'll  forget  to 
come  to  the  trial!  Now  let's  get  down  to  brass  tacks. 
You  let  me  go  to  town  to-morrow  an'  tell  him  you've 
changed  yo'  mind.  It's  yo'  life  you're  playin'  with,  man! 
If  you  go  to  the  pen  for  arson  you'll  die  there !  You'll 
never  come  out  again!     You're  too  old!" 

Jeff's  face  knotted  with  pain.  But  he  was  true  to  his 
simple  code.  "It — it's  too  late.  Squire.  I've  give  him 
the  case.     It  wouldn't  be  fair — no,  it  wouldn't  be  fair." 

On  the  third  day  of  the  March  term  of  court,  at  a 
quarter  of  nine  in  the  morning,  pale  and  drawn  of  face, 
old  Jeff  climbed  the  spiral  stairs  of  the  courthouse  with 
Squire  Kirby,  grimly  silent,  beside  him.  Only  one  com- 
munication, in  all  the  weeks  that  had  elapsed  since  Jeff's 
visit  to  him,  had  Colonel  Donaldson  sent.  That  was  a 
crisp  notice  to  appear  this  morning  in  court. 


42         CHARGE    AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

Behind  them  followed  Bill  Carson  and  his  wife,  and 
little  Ella.  A  strange  postscript  to  the  notice  had  read: 
"I'm  requesting  that  Ella   Carson  be  present  in  court." 

"He's  all  balled  up,"  KIrby  had  sneered  when  he  read 
it.  "He  fikely  thinks  it  was  Ella  Carson  that  was  pres- 
ent at  the  sto'  that  night  instead  of  Sam  Raine's  wife!" 

Down  the  aisle  they  passed,  the  crowd  that  was  already 
filling  the  court-room  turning  to  look  at  them  curiously. 
Kirby  shot  a  quick  glance  at  the  lawyers'  tables  inside  the 
bar  rail. 

"He  ain't  even  here!"  he  whispered  to  Jeff.  "I  hope 
to  God  he's  forgot.    Then  the  co't  will  give  you  a  laivyer!" 

The  sheriff  pointed  out  the  table  for  the  defendant  and 
his  lawyer.  Kirby  sat  down  beside  Jeff;  the  Carsons 
found  a  place  on  the  front  bench  of  the  main  court-room. 

"Silence  in  the  court!"  cried  the  sheriff. 

Overawed,  and  with  a  queer  feeling  that  he  was  chok- 
ing, old  Jeff"  saw  the  judge  enter  in  his  black  robes,  while 
the  court-house  rose  and  stood  until  His  Honor  was  seated. 
Yonder  in  an  ante-room,  laughing  and  chatting,  he  made 
out  young  Burton  Evans,  prosecuting  attorney,  strong, 
ruddy,  confident.  And  then,  last,  down  the  aisle  came  old 
Colonel  Donaldson,  dressed  like  a  preacher  or  an  under- 
taker, in  a  long  black  coat  with  a  narrow  white  tie.  He 
shook  hands  flabbily;  he  walked  over  to  the  table  below 
the  clerk's  desk  and  carefully  placed  on  it  a  small  bundle, 
wrapped  in  paper. 

He  came  back  and  sat  down  at  his  table,  with  JeflF 
between  him  and  Kirby.  The  court  grew  quiet.  In  a 
haze  the  old  man  rose,  Donaldson  beside  him.  Crisp, 
quick,  accusing.  Burton  Evans,  glancing  fiercely  now  and 
then  into  the  old  man's  eyes,  read  off  the  indictment,  long, 
meaningless,  full  of  legal  phrases.  The  jury  was  picked, 
Donaldson  after  a  few  careless  questions,  discarding  six 
of  them,  then  relapsing  into  his  chair.  The  trial  of  old 
Jeff  Potter  was  on. 

It  was  in  some  respects  the  strangest  case  ever  tried  In 
that  old  court-room;  for  Colonel  Donaldson,  sitting  list- 
less and  abstracted  beside  his  client,  lived  up  to  the  worst 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  43 

predictions  of  Kirby.  He  just  let  everything  slide.  The 
judge,  an  old  man  himself,  looked  now  and  then  at  this 
strange  lawyer  for  the  defense  with  something  like  a 
frown.  Jeff  was  too  dazed  to  say  anything.  Only  Kirby 
fought — fought  in  angry  whispers,  leaning  across  Jeff,  his 
eyes  blazing  into  Donaldson's. 

Three  witnesses  for  the  State  told  the  same  story  of  the 
row  in  the  store.  The  negroes  who  had  passed  along  the 
road  described  having  seen  him  going  toward  the  store 
about  twelve  o'clock  that  night.  He  had  stopped,  they 
said,  as  if  to  hide,  and  hadn't  answered  when  they  called 
him  by  name.  No,  he  didn't  have  a  lantern,  or  if  he  had 
one  it  wasn't  lit. 

"Ask  'em,"  whispered  Kirby  to  Donaldson,  "how  they 
know  it  was  Jeff  Potter  in  the  dark.  Ask  'em,  sir.  Ask 
'em!" 

"Why,  my  dear  sir,"  retorted  Donaldson  in  a  whisper 
hard  and  dry,  "my  client  here  doesn't  even  deny  it." 

Then  Jake  testified  that  at  daybreak  he  saw  him  com- 
ing back  from  the  direction  of  the  store,  x^nd  Tom  Kelly 
declared  that  he  had  trailed  the  old  man  into  a  swamp, 
and  had  arrested  him  there  while  he  was  trying  to  make 
his  get-away. 

"Ask  him,  Colonel  Donaldson,"  whispered  Kirby  again, 
eyes  fierce,  "how  he  knows  Jeff  was  trying  to  get  away." 

Old  Donaldson  didn't  even  look  at  the  magistrate  now. 
"Well,  just  let  that  pass,"  he  answered. 

"My  God !"  gasped  Kirby. 

Likewise,  every  statement  of  Frank  Blainey  went  un- 
challenged. He  had  ordered  the  old  man  out  because 
he  was  a  nuisance,  explained  Frank.  He  was  just  a 
loafer,  who  didn't  work  for  his  living.  He  had  hated  to 
do  it — sure  he  had — never  hated  to  do  a  thing  so  much  in 
his  life.  No,  he  wasn't  angry.  He  had  closed  up  store 
and  gone  home  right  afterward — about  eleven  o'clock. 
His  wife  had  gone  to  spend  the  night  with  her  people, 
and  there  was  no  one  at  home.  Yes,  he  had  worried 
about  it  a  lot  on  the  way  home.  It  had  been  a  disagree- 
able task,  the  most  disagreeable  of  his  life.  Nothing  but 
the  good  of  his  business  could  have  made  him  do  it.     Jeff 


44         CHARGE    AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

Potter  wasn't  the  kind  of  man  he  wanted  to  have  around 
the  store.     Women  didn't  Hke  to  come  where  he  was. 

"What  women — what  women,  Colonel  Donaldson?" 
whispered  Kirby.     "Quick — ask  him  what  women!" 

But  Colonel  Donaldson,  sitting  back  in  his  chair,  the 
tips  of  his  thin  fingers  together,  his  eyes — piercing  eyes, 
too,  they  were — fastened  on  the  witness,  did  not  seem 
even  to  hear;  while  old  Jeff  bowed  his  gray  head  in 
shame,  and  his  hands  clasped  and  unclasped  on  the  table 
before  him,  and  his  collar  choked  him  so  that  he  opened 
it  at  the  neck. 

It  was  at  lunch,  which  followed  immediately  after 
Frank's  testimony,  that  Kirby  broke  loose.  He  and  Jeff, 
Bill  Carson  and  his  wife  and  little  Ella,  had  eaten  in  a 
restaurant;  and  now  Kirby  rose  to  pay  the  bill. 

"He  just  don't  care — don't  care  that!"  And  Kirby 
snapped  his  strong  fingers.  "I've  been  in  many  a  trial. 
I  never  befo'  saw  a  lawyer  not  even  raise  a  finger  to  save 
a  client!" 

A  curious  crowd  had  gathered  round  them.  "That's 
right,"  some  of  them  said.  "He  ain't  done  a  thing." 
And  Mrs.  Carson,  face  upraised,  grabbed  old  Jeff  by  the 
sleeve,  while  little  Ella  clung  to  her  mother's  skirt. 

"Oh,  get  another  lawyer,"  pleaded  the  woman,  "before 
it's  too  late.     Please — please!" 

Jeff  swallowed,  but  he  shook  his  head.  "It  wouldn't 
be  fair,"  he  said.     "No — it  wouldn't  be  fair." 

Early  in  the  afternoon  the  ancient  and  supine  lawyer 
for  the  defense  showed  the  first  spark.  The  testimony 
for  the  State  was  all  in,  and  he  had  put  Kirby  on  the 
stand.  His  voice  as  he  stood,  stiff  and  formal  beside 
Jeff's  chair,  was  dry,  matter  of  fact. 

"How  long,  Squire  Kirby,  have  you  known  the  de- 
fendant, Jeff  Potter?" 

"Forty  years." 

"You  must  know,  then,  his  reputation  for  law  and 
order.     Is  it  good  or  bad?" 

"Good." 

Then  Burton  Evans,  exuding  confidence,  was  on  his 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  45 

feet.  "He's  a  tenant  on  your  place,  I  believe,  Mr.  Kirby. 
Did  he  pay  his  rent  last  year?" 

Kirby  turned  to  the  judge.  "Your  Honor,"  he  asked, 
"must  I  answer  that  question?" 

The  judge  looked  at  Colonel  Donaldson.  "Do  I  hear 
any  objections  from  the  plaintiff's  lawyer?  If  so  I  may 
rule  that  question  out.     If  not — " 

The  voice  was  dry.  "No  objection,  Your  Honor." 
And  Kirby,  from  the  witness  chair,  glared. 

"He  paid  me  what  I  asked,"  snapped  Kirby. 

"And  what  did  you  ask,  Air.  Kirby?"  demanded  Evans. 

The  judge  was  frowning  now — frowning  at  Donald- 
son, Back  in  the  court-room  a  slight  buzz  of  voices 
began.  Two  or  three  spectators  left  benches  in  the  rear 
and,  bent  double,  as  if  to  hide  their  progress,  darted  to 
seats  nearer  the  front.  And  when  at  last  Donaldson 
spoke,  it  was  as  if  to  further  the  case  of  the  State. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Kirby,"  he  asked,  "did  he 
not  pay  you,  for  rent,  one  or  more  carved  Indians,  which 
you  sent  to  your  grandchildren  as  Christmas  presents?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kirby. 

"Silence  in  the  court!"  cried  the  sheriff. 

Burton  Evans  turned  away,  a  triumphant  smile  on  his 
face.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  jury.  They  were  mostly 
men  of  family;  and  now  he  must  have  remembered  sud- 
denly that  Donaldson,  in  choosing  the  jury,  had  thrown 
out  unmarried  men  and  men  without  children;  and  for 
the  first  time  now  he  must  have  noticed  that  the  jury 
was  mostly  old  men,  some  of  them  plainly  grandfathers. 
Anyway,  Burton  Evans's  smile  suddenly  vanished! 

"Jeff  Potter,"  said  Donaldson,  "will  you  take  the 
stand?" 

Old  Jeff  never  knew  how  he  got  there.  He  only  knew 
he  was  sitting  in  a  chair  on  a  platform,  his  tattered  hat 
between  his  knees;  that  before  him  were  thousands  of 
faces;  that  thousands  of  eyes  were  turned  upon  him;  that 
to  the  left  the  jury  were  leaning  forward;  and  that  to 
the  right  the  judge's  swivel  chair  creaked  as  His  Honor 
turned  toward  him.     Then  he  saw  that  Colonel  Donald- 


46         CHARGE   AGAINST   JEFF   POTTER 

son  was  still  standing  very  erect  by  his  table.  Colonel 
Donaldson  was  speaking. 

"We  will  not  now  go  into  the  happenings  of  that  night, 
Jeff  Potter,  the  night  on  which  It  Is  alleged  by  the  State 
that  you  burned  the  store  of  this  man."  He  stopped  and 
looked  hard  at  Blainey.  "The  State  may  question  you 
on  that  if  the  State  so  wishes.  But  I  want  to  get  at  an- 
other matter.  Mr.  Kelly — I  believe  that  is  the  officer's 
name — has  stated  that  on  the  afternoon  he  came  to  arrest 
you,  you  tried  to  escape  by  running  to  the  woods.  Now, 
Jefferson  Potter,  tell  the  judge  and  jury  why  you  went  to 
the  woods,  sir.     Talk  loud,  so  they  can  hear." 

"I  went" — old  Jeff  hardly  knew  his  own  voice — "I  went 
to  git  some  pokeberry  juice  to  color  an  Injun  with." 

"And  this  Indian — for  whom  were  you  carving  it?" 

"Fer  little  Ella  Kyarson." 

"And  why  were  you  carving  an  Indian  for  little  Ella 
Carson?     Talk  loud,  so  the  jury  there  can  hear  you." 

Jeif  turned  toward  them.  They  were  leaning  forward 
still  farther  now,  these  old  graybeards,  their  eyes  on  him, 
their  faces  suddenly  all  kindly. 

"I  was  carvin'  it  fer  her  because  she  said  she  never 
believed  I  sot  that  sto'  on  fire." 

The  prosecutor,  face  flushed,  sprang  to  his  feet.  "I 
object  to  all  this.  Your  Honor!  I  contend,  sir,  that  this 
is  a  patent  attempt — " 

But  the  judge  checked  him.  "The  evidence  is  ad- 
missible, sir,"  he  said.  "The  officer  testified  that  the  de- 
fendant was  trying  to  leave  the  country.  Now  it  Is  quite 
in  order  for  the  defense  to  show  that  some  other  motive 
than  escape  induced  the  defendant  to  enter  the  swamp 
where  he  was  arrested." 

The  dry  voice  resumed:  "So  you  were  carving  an 
Indian  maiden  for  the  little  girl  who  did  not  believe  you 
burned  the  store.     Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Her  father  said  she  was  cryin'  an'  wouldn't 
go  to  Sunday-school." 

"Do  you  see  the  little  girl  in  court?" 

"Yes,  sir.  That's  her.  Settin'  thar  on  the  front  bench 
with  her  ma." 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  47 

There  was  a  general  commotion.  People  in  the  rear 
of  the  court-room  stood  up.  The  jury  all  looked  toward 
that  front  bench,  while  a  mother  and  a  little  girl  in  a  blue 
dress  both  blushed  scarlet. 

And  now  a  strange  thing  was  happening:  Old  Colonel 
Donaldson,  his  manner  still  perfectly  impersonal,  had 
walked  over  to  the  table  below  the  clerk's  desk  and 
opened  a  bundle. 

"I  submit  this  in  evidence,  Your  Honor.  Here  is  the  In- 
dian girl  he  was  carving.  Does  Your  Honor  care  to  look  at 
it.''  You  will  observe  that  it  is  half  stained,  showing  where 
the  work  was  interrupted  by  the  advent  of  the  officer." 

The  judge  took  it  and  inspected  it,  a  smile  on  his 
strong-lined  face.  He  handed  it  back,  and  the  colonel 
walked  over  to  the  jury.  ''Pass  it  around,  gentlemen," 
he  directed,  "from  one  to  the  other." 

And  now  the  astonished  old  man  in  the  witness  box 
saw  the  whole  court-room  seem  to  move  forward,  people 
leaving  their  seats  to  peer;  heard  over  and  over  the 
sheriiT's  '"Silence  in  the  court!"  and  saw  on  the  faces  of 
the  jury  that  passed  the  carved  bit  of  wood  from  hand 
to  hand  the  smiles  of  fathers  and  grandfathers  who 
would  like  to  take  it  home  to  the  children. 

But  his  relief  was  short-lived:  Burton  Evans  had 
pc     ced  on  him. 

iue  questions  came  thick  and  fast,  after  the  old  man 
had  told  the  story  of  his  movements  that  night.  Cattle 
in  the  swamp?  What  cattle?  Wasn't  he  a  little  over- 
anxious about  another  man's  cattle — a  man  he  owed  rent 
to?  (No  objection  from  Colonel  Donaldson.)  Did  he 
have  owl's  eyes  that  he  could  find  his  way  about  on  a 
pitch-black  night?  If  his  mission  were  an  honest  one, 
why  didn't  he  light  a  lantern?  Was  it  his  custom  to 
draw  back  and  hide  from  passers-by?  Was  it  his  custom 
not  to  acknowledge  a  friendly  greeting  in  the  road? 
Did  he  usually  sleep  as  sound  as  he  slept  that  night? 

But  old  Jeff,  buffeted  about  like  an  untrained  boxer 
standing  before  a  professional,  managed  somehow  to  keep 
on  his  feet,  to  stick  to  the  truth,  though  the  sweat  stood 
out  on  his  face,  and  his  limp  old  hat  was  twisted  into 


48         CHARGE   AGAINST  JEFF   POTTER 

a  rag,  and  the  crowd  and  jury  swam  round  and  round  be- 
fore him. 

Groggy,  he  came  down  at  last,  though  not  until  the 
judge  himself  had  interposed  in  his  behalf,  and  not  until 
the  eyes  of  the  jury  were  full  of  compassion,  and  not  until 
from  the  front  bench  came  the  voice  of  a  mother  trying 
to  quiet  a  sobbing  child. 

He  sank  down  limp  into  his  chair,  to  find  Squire  Kirby 
tugging  at  the  coat-tails  of  Colonel  Donaldson,  who  had 
risen,  and  whispering  over  and  over,  his  voice  full  of  re- 
spect now: 

"Rest  the  case.  Colonel!  Rest  the  case,  rest  the  case! 
You've  brought  out  the  Injun!  You  give  Evans  rope, 
an'  he's  hung  hisself!  Colonel  Donaldson,  Colonel  Don- 
aldson, give  the  case  to  the  jury  as  quick  as  you  kin!" 

But  the  ancient  lawyer  regarded  not  at  all  the  frantic 
whispers  or  the  tugs  at  his  coat-tails.  Voice  still  dry  and 
impersonal,  he  spoke  to  the  judge: 

"May  it  please  Your  Honor,  I  want  Mr.  Blainey  put 
on  the  stand  once  more.  I  have  just  a  few  questions  to 
ask  him.  There  are  some  details  which  I  overlooked. 
I  am  sure,  sir,  that  a  man  of  Mr.  Blainey's  humane  and 
just  temperament  will  not  mind  going  on  the  stand  again. 
I  am  sure  the  state  attorney  can  have  no  possible  c  ac- 
tions, sir.     Mr.  Blainey?" 

Followed  a  brief  excited  conference  between  Blainey 
and  Evans.  Then,  very  pale,  Blainey  was  in  the  witness 
chair,  and  Donaldson  was  standing  very  straight  by  his 
table,  the  afternoon  sun  streaming  through  one  of  the 
high  gothic  windows  of  the  old  courthouse,  and  shining 
full  on  his  thin,  hawk-like  face. 

"Mr.  Blainey,  what  time  did  you  leave  the  store  that 
night.?" 

"I've  answered  that  once,"  said  Blainey. 

"Well,  answer  it  again!" 

"1  said  eleven." 

"Wasn't  it  later  than  that?" 

Blainey  looked  at  Evans,  who  nodded,  his  lips  com- 
pressed. 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  49 

"Oh,  it  might  have  been  half  past." 

"Was  it  as  late  as  twelve?" 

"No — it  was  not!" 

And  now  once  more  the  sheriff  shouted  "Silence  in  the 
court!"  For  the  old  lawyer  had  advanced  two  quick 
steps  toward  the  witness,  and  suddenly  his  voice,  shrill 
and  grating,  rang  out,  while  a  thrill  like  an  electric  shock 
ran  through  the  court-room. 

"Wasn't  it  two  o'clock?  Answer  me,  sir — wasn't  it 
two?  .  .  .  You  do  not  answer.  Very  well.  Answer  me 
this:  Did  some  friends  of  yours  drive  out  to  see  you 
that  night  in  a  car?  Did  they  park  the  car  in  the  woods 
near  your  store?  Did  they  bring  with  them  some  liquor 
and  some  cards  and  some  chips?  Did  you  have  a  game 
of  poker  in  the  basement  of  your  store?  Did  all  of  you 
imbibe  freely  of  that  liquor  in  the  course  of  the  game? 
Did  you,  while  under  the  influence  of  that  liquor,  throw 
lighted  cigar  and  cigarette  stubs  on  the  iioor  of  the  base- 
ment of  that  store  that  was  littered  with  packing  of  all 
sorts,  and  excelsior?" 

Again  Evans  was  on  his  feet,  apoplectic  with  objec- 
tions. But  the  old  lawyer  went  on,  before  the  judge 
could  speak,  his  voice  high-pitched  and  metallic,  filling 
the  excited  court-room. 

"Is  it  a  fact,  sir,  that  at  two  o'clock  your  friends  took 
you  home  in  that  car?  Is  it  a  fact,  sir,  that  before 
you  reached  that  house  you  saw  a  glow  in  the  sky?  And 
that  when  these  friends  wanted  to  go  back  you  said:  'Let 
the  damn  store  burn — it's  insured'?" 

"Don't  answer  those  questions,"  thundered  Evans. 
"Your  Honor,  this   man's   not  on  trial!" 

"He  will  be!"  cried  the  old  lawyer,  "for  perjury  in  open 
court!  I  am  not  surmising.  Your  Honor.  I  can  prove 
the  truth  of  everything  I  have  implied,  sir.  I  was  fortu- 
nate enough  to  get  hold  of  the  number  of  that  car. 
Through  the  number  I  traced  the  occupants.  Happily 
for  the  good  of  our  humanity,  sir,  there  is  always  to  be 
found  among  a  group  of  young  men,  however  wild,  one 
who  will  tell  the  truth.  Such  a  one  is  young  John  Duck- 
ett,  who  was  in  that  car  that  night."     He  turned  to  the 


50         CHARGE   AGAINST   JEFF    POTTER 

court-room.     "Mr.  Court  Crier — call  John  Duckett  Into 


court!" 


At  one  side  of  the  witness  chair  that  sat  high  above 
the  main  court-room,  and  which  was  on  a  level  with  the 
judge's  seat,  ran  a  railing.  And  now  Frank  Blainey,  who 
had  been  growing  whiter  and  whiter,  turned  sideways, 
his  arm  on  this  railing,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  arm, 
his  fingers  clutching  at  his  hair.  With  a  cry,  Mrs.  Blainey 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  started  forward.  The  voice  of 
the  judge  was  clear  and  compelling. 

"Keep  your  seat,  madam.  Stay  where  you  are,  the 
rest  of  you.  This  witness  has  not  fainted.  IVlr.  Crier, 
one  minute.  Do  not  call  the  other  witness  until  I  so  in- 
struct you.  Mr.  Blainey,  here,  seems  to  have  something 
on  his  mind.     Mr.  Blainey?" 

Blainey  raised  his  face.  The  glance  he  shot  at  Don- 
aldson was  a  bit  wild,  a  bit  vicious,  too.  His  hair  was  all 
disheveled.  He  sat  limp  In  his  chair.  The  judge,  turn- 
ing toward  him,  went  on. 

"Mr.  Blainey,  if  you  have  anything  to  say  concerning 
the  facts  implied  in  Colonel  Donaldson's  questions,  you 
are  at  liberty  to  speak,  sir.  Otherwise  this  witness,  Mr. 
Duckett,  will  be  called.  My  advice  to  you,  Mr.  Blainey, 
is  that  you  speak." 

The  court-room  was  straining  forward  now;  hundreds 
of  tense  faces  were  turned  toward  the  witness  chair,  faces 
strained  in  the  effort  to  hear  the  mumbling,  halting,  re- 
luctant words. 

"I_I_    Aw,  it's  all  true!" 

"Sit  up,  Mr.  Blainey!"  commanded  the  judge.  "Look 
at  me,  sir.  You  have  perjured  yourself  In  this  court! 
That  is  a  grave  offense;  but  It  Is  as  nothing,  sir,  com- 
pared with  the  motive  behind  that  perjury.  In  order  to 
save  your  practices  from  exposure,  you  would  have  sent 
an  old  man  to  prison,  probably  for  the  remainder  of  his 
natural  life.  I  have  no  words  strong  enough,  sir,  to  ex- 
press my  abhorrence,  and  the  abhorrence  of  all  men,  of 
what  you've  done!     Are  you  listening,  Mr.  Blainey?" 

Again  the  vicious  glance  around,  followed  by  the 
bowed  head,  and  a  nod. 


SAMUEL   A.    DERIEUX  51 

"But,"  continued  the  judge,  "the  law  puts  in  my  hands 
the  means  of  punishing  you.  By  your  own  confession, 
you  have  committed  perjury,  and  perjury  is  punished  by 
a  long  jail  sentence  and  a  heavy  fine.  Combined,  they 
will  not  be  sufficient  for  your  offense,  but  they  will  be 
enough,  sir,  to  make  you  remember  all  the  rest  of  your 
days—" 

And  now  he  stopped,  for  from  his  seat,  face  quivering, 
old  Jeff  had  sprung  to  his  feet. 

"Jedge!"  he  cried.  "Don't  send  him  to  the  pen,  Jedge! 
Jedge,  he's  Sam  Blainey's  son!" 

Compassionately  the  judge  looked  down  at  him  where 
he  stood  beside  the  table,  trembling;  then  he  spoke: 

"Sit  down,  old  man.  Frank  Blainey,  the  man  whom 
you  have  attempted  so  grievously  to  wrong  pleads  for 
you.  And  because  of  his  plea,  which  I  can  do  nothing 
but  honor  and  accede  to,  I  shall  remit  any  prison  sentence 
which  I  might  have  imposed.  But  I  warn  you,  sir,  that 
when  the  time  for  your  trial  comes,  in  the  due  process  of 
law,  I  shall  fine  you  to  the  very  limit  allowed  me  by  the 
statute.  Mr.  Sheriff",  see  that  this  man,  Frank  Blainey, 
does  not  leave  the  jurisdiction  of  this  court." 

"Old  man,  stand  up  oace  more,  so  that  all  in  this 
court-room  may  see  you.  .  .  .  Jeff'  Potter,  this  plea  of 
yours  shall  go  down  on  the  records  of  this  court  as  a 
memorial  to  you  and  as  a  high  example  to  all  men  who 
may  know  or  read  of  it  of  that  quality  of  mercy  which 
is  the  sovereign  good  in  human  nature.  And  now,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  you  are  automatically  discharged  from 
this  case,  and  I  shall  ask  the  crowd  to  pass  out  quietly, 
for  court  is  adjourned." 

How  many  people  old  Jeff  shook  hands  with  that  after- 
noon, he  never  knew.  He  did  know  though  that  Burton 
Evans  was  the  first  among  them;  that  Mrs.  Carson,  who 
came  next,  was  crying;  that  the  strong  hands  of  Bill 
Carson  and  Squire  Kirby  almost  crushed  his  own  frailer 
hand;  and  that  off  yonder,  at  a  table  below  the  clerk's 
desk,  a  prim  old  lawyer  in  a  long  black  coat  had  picked 
up  a  carved  Indian  and  was  presenting  it  to  a  little  girl 
in  a  blue  dress,  with  an  old-fashioned  bow  strange  to  see. 


The  Century  Magazine 

"A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

BY 

STACY  AUMONIER 


"A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" ' 
By  STACY  AUMONIER 

TO  look  at  old  Sam  Gates  you  would  never  suspect 
him  of  having  nerves.  His  sixty-nine  years  of  close 
application  to  the  needs  of  the  soil  had  given  him  a  cer- 
tain earthy  stolidity.  To  observe  him  hoeing,  or  thin- 
ning out  a  broad  field  of  turnips,  hardly  attracted  one's 
attention,  he  seemed  so  much  part  and  parcel  of  the  whole 
scheme.  He  blended  into  the  soil  like  a  glorified  swede. 
Nevertheless,  the  half-dozen  people  who  claimed  his  ac- 
quaintance knew  him  to  be  a  man  who  suffered  from  little 
moods  of  irritabilitv. 

And  on  this  glorious  morning  a  little  incident  annoyed 
him  unreasonably.  It  concerned  his  niece  Aggie.  She 
was  a  plump  girl  with  clear,  blue  eyes,  and  a  face  as 
round  and  inexpressive  as  the  dumplings  for  which  the 
county  was  famous.  She  came  slowly  across  the  long 
sweep  of  the  downland  and,  putting  down  the  bundle 
wrapped  in  a  red  handkerchief  which  contained  his  break- 
fast and  dinner,  she  said: 

"Well,  Uncle,  is  there  any  noosr" 

Now,  this  may  not  appear  to  the  casual  reader  to  be  a 
remark  likely  to  cause  irritation,  but  it  affected  old  Sam 
Gates  as  a  very  silly  and  unnecessary  question.  It  was, 
moreover,  the  constant  repetition  of  it  which  was  begin- 
ning to  anger  him.  He  met  his  niece  twice  a  day.  In  the 
morning  she  brought  his  bundle  of  food  at  seven,  and 
when  he  passed  his  sister's  cottage  on  the  way  home  to 
tea  at  five  she  was  invariably  hanging  about  the  gate,  and 
she  always  said  in  the  same  voice: 

"Well,  Uncle,  is  there  any  noos:" 

^Copyright,  1917,  by   The  Century  Co. 


56  "A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

Noos!  What  noos  should  there  be?  For  sixty-nine 
years  he  had  never  lived  farther  than  five  miles  from 
Halvesham.  For  nearly  sixty  of  those  years  he  had  bent 
his  back  above  the  soil.  There  were,  indeed,  historic  occa- 
sions. Once,  for  instance,  when  he  had  married  Annie 
Hachet.  And  there  was  the  birth  of  his  daughter.  There 
was  also  a  famous  occasion  when  he  had  visited  London. 
Once  he  had  been  to  a  flower-show  at  Market  Rough- 
borough.  He  either  went  or  didn't  go  to  church  on  Sun- 
days. He  had  had  many  interesting  chats  with  Mr.  James 
at  the  Cowman,  and  three  years  ago  had  sold  a  pig  to 
Mrs.  Way.  But  he  couldn't  always  have  interesting  noos 
of  this  sort  up  his  sleeve.  Didn't  the  silly  zany  know 
that  for  the  last  three  weeks  be  had  been  hoeing  and  thin- 
ning out  turnips  for  Mr.  Hodge  on  this  very  same  field? 
What  noos  could  there  be? 

He  blinked  at  his  niece,  and  didn't  answer.  She  un- 
did the  parcel  and  said: 

"Mrs.  Coping's  fowl  got  out  again  last  night." 

"Ah,"  he  replied  in  a  non-committal  manner  and  began 
to  munch  his  bread  and  bacon.  His  niece  picked  up  the 
handkerchief  and,  humming  to  herself,  walked  back  across 
the  field. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  a  white  sea  mist  added 
to  the  promise  of  a  hot  day.  He  sat  there  munching, 
thinking  of  nothing  in  particular,  but  gradually  subsiding 
into  a  mood  of  placid  content.  He  noticed  the  back  of 
Aggie  disappear  in  the  distance.  It  was  a  mile  to  the 
cottage  and  a  mile  and  a  half  to  Halvesham.  Silly  things, 
girls.  They  were  all  alike.  One  had  to  make  allow- 
ances. He  dismissed  her  from  his  thoughts,  and  took  a 
long  swig  of  tea  out  of  a  bottle.  Insects  buzzed  lazily. 
He  tapped  his  pocket  to  assure  himself  that  his  pouch  of 
shag  was  there,  and  then  he  continued  munching.  When 
he  had  finished,  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  stretched  himself 
comfortably.  He  looked  along  the  line  of  turnips  he  had 
thinned  and  then  across  the  adjoining  field  of  swedes. 
Silver  streaks  appeared  on  the  sea  below  the  mist.  In 
some  dim  way  he  felt  happy  in  his  solitude  amidst  this 
sweeping  immensity  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky. 


STACY  AUMONIER  57 

And  then  something  else  came  to  irritate  him:  it  was 
one  of  "these  dratted  airyplanes."  "Airyplanes"  were  his 
pet  aversiofl.  He  could  find  nothing  to  be  said  in  their 
favor.  Nasty,  noisy,  disfiguring  things  that  seared  the 
heavens  and  made  the  earth  dangerous.  And  every  day 
there  seemed  to  be  more  and  more  of  them.  Of  course 
"this  old  war"  was  responsible  for  a  lot  of  them,  he 
knew.  The  war  was  a  "plaguy  noosance."  They  were 
short-handed  on  the  farm,  beer  and  tobacco  were  dear, 
and  Mrs.  Steven's  nephew  had  been  and  got  wounded 
in  the  foot. 

He  turned  his  attention  once  more  to  the  turnips;  but 
an  "airyplane"  has  an  annoying  genius  for  gripping  one's 
attention.  When  it  appears  on  the  scene,  however  much 
we  dislike  it,  it  has  a  way  of  taking  the  stage-center. 
We  cannot  help  constantly  looking  at  it.  And  so  it  was 
with  old  Sam  Gates.  He  spat  on  his  hands  and  blinked 
up  at  the  sky.  And  suddenly  the  aeroplane  behaved  in  a 
very  extraordinary  manner.  It  was  well  over  the  sea 
when  it  seemed  to  lurch  drunkenly  and  skimmed  the 
water.  Then  it  shot  up  at  a  dangerous  angle  and  zig- 
zagged. It  started  to  go  farther  out,  and  then  turned  and 
made  for  the  land.  The  engines  were  making  a  curious 
grating  noise.  It  rose  once  more,  and  then  suddenly 
dived  downward,  and  came  plump  down  right  in  the  mid- 
dle of  Mr,  Hodge's  field  of  swedes. 

And  then,  as  if  not  content  with  this  desecration,  it 
ran  along  the  ground,  ripping  and  tearing  up  twenty-five 
yards  of  good  swedes,  and  then  came  to  a  stop. 

Old  Sam  Gates  was  in  a  terrible  state.  The  aeroplane 
was  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away,  but  he  waved  his 
arms  and  called  out: 

"Hi,  you  there,  you  mustn't  land  in  they  swedes! 
They're  Mister  Hodge's." 

The  instant  the  aeroplane  stopped,  a  man  leaped  out 
and  gazed  quickly  round.  He  glanced  at  Sam  Gates,  and 
seemed  uncertain  whether  to  address  him  or  whether  to 
concentrate  his  attention  on  the  flying-machine.  The 
latter  arrangement  appeared  to  be  his  ultimate  decision. 
He  dived  under  the  engine  and  became  frantically  busy. 


S8  "A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

Sam  had  never  seen  any  one  work  with  such  furious 
energy;  but  all  the  same  it  was  not  to  be  tolerated.  It 
was  disgraceful.  Sam  started  out  across  the  field,  almost 
hurrying  in  his  indignation.  When  he  appeared  within 
earshot  of  the  aviator  he  cried  out  again: 

"Hi!  you  mustn't  rest  your  old  airyplane  here!  You've 
kicked  up  all  Mr.  Hodge's  swedes.  A  noice  thing  you've 
done !" 

He  was  within  five  yards  w'len  suddenly  the  aviator 
turned  and  covered  him  with  a  revolver!  And  speak- 
ing in  a  sharp,  staccato  voice,  he  said: 

"Old  Grandfather,  you  must  sit  down.  I  am  very  much 
occupied.  If  you  interfere  or  attempt  to  go  away,  I  shoot 
you.     So!" 

Sam  gazed  at  the  horrid,  glittering  little  barrel  and 
gasped.  Well,  he  never !  To  be  threatened  with  murder 
when  you're  doing  your  duty  in  your  employer's  private 
property!  But,  still,  perhaps  the  man  was  mad.  A  man 
must  be  more  or  less  mad  to  go  up  in  one  of  those  crazy 
things.  And  life  was  very  sweet  on  that  summer  morning 
despite  sixty-nine  years.     He  sat  down  among  the  swedes. 

The  aviator  was  so  busy  with  his  cranks  and  machinery 
that  he  hardly  deigned  to  pay  him  any  attention  except  to 
keep  the  revolver  handy.  He  worked  feverishly,  and 
Sam  sat  watching  him.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  he 
appeared  to  have  solved  his  troubles  with  the  machine, 
but  he  still  seemed  very  scared.  He  kept  on  glancing 
round  and  out  to  sea.  When  his  repafrs  were  complete 
he  straightened  his  back  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow.  He  was  apparently  on  the  point  of  springing 
back  Into  the  machine  and  going  off  when  a  sudden  mood 
of  facetiousness,  caused  by  relief  from  the  strain  he  had 
endured,  came  to  him.  He  turned  to  old  Sam  and 
smiled,  at  the  same  time  remarking: 

"Well,  old  Grandfather,  and  now  we  shall  be  all  right, 
isn't  kr 

He  came  close  up  to  Sam,  and  then  suddenly  started 

D3.ck 

"Gott!"  he  cried,  "Paul  Jouperts!" 

Bewildered,    Sam    gazed    at    him,    and    the    madman 


STACY  AUMONIER  59 

started    talking    to    him    in    some    foreign    tongue.     Sam 
shook  his  head. 

"You  no  roight,"  he  remarked,  "to  come  bargin' 
through  they  swedes  of  Mr.  Hodge's." 

And  then  the  aviator  behaved  in  a  most  peculiar  man- 
ner. He  came  up  and  examined  Sam's  face  very  closely, 
and  gave  a  sudden  tug  at  his  beard  and  hair,  as  if  to  see 
whether  they  were  real  or  false. 

"What  is  your  name,  old  man?"  he  said. 

"Sam  Gates." 

The  aviator  muttered  some  words  that  sounded  some- 
thing like  "mare  vudish,"  and  then  turned  to  his  machine. 
He  appeared  to  be  dazed  and  in  a  great  state  of  doubt. 
He  fumbled  with  some  cranks,  but  kept  glancing  at  old 
Sam.  At  last  he  got  into  the  car  and  strapped  himself  in. 
Then  he  stopped,  and  sat  there  deep  in  thought.  At  last 
he  suddenly  unstrapped  himself  and  sprang  out  again 
and,  approaching  Sam,  said  very  deliberately: 

"Old  Grandfather,  I  shall  require  you  to  accompany 
me." 

Sam  gasped. 

"Ehr"  he  said.  "What  be  talkin'  about.?  'Company? 
I  got  these  'ere  loines  o'  turnips — I  be  already  behoind — " 
The  disgusting  little  revolver  once  more  flashed  before  his 
eyes. 

"There  must  be  no  discussion,"  came  the  voice.  "It  is 
necessary  that  you  mount  the  seat  of  the  car  without 
delay.     Otherwise  I  shoot  you  like  the  dog  you  are.     So!" 

Old  Sam  was  hale  and  hearty.  He  had  no  desire  to  die 
so  ignominiously.  The  pleasant  smell  of  the  Norfolk 
downland  was  in  his  nostrils;  his  foot  was  on  his  native 
heath.  He  mounted  the  scat  of  the  car,  contenting  him- 
self with  a  mutter: 

"Well,  that  be  a  noice  thing,  I  must  say!  Flyin'  about 
the  country  with  all  they  turnips  on'y  half  thinned!" 

He  found  himself  strapped  in.  The  aviator  was  in  a 
fever  of  anxiety  to  get  away.  The  engines  made  a  ghastly 
splutter  and  noise.  The  thing  started  running  along  the 
ground.  Suddenly  it  shot  upward,  giving  the  swedes  a 
last   contemptuous    kick.     At   twenty    minutes    to   eight 


6o  "A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

that  morning  old  Sam  found  himself  being  borne  right 
up  above  his  fields  and  out  to  sea!  His  breath  came 
quickly.     He  was  a  little  frightened. 

"God  forgive  me!"  he  murmured. 

The  thing  was  so  fantastic  and  sudden  that  his  mind 
could  not  grasp  it.  He  only  felt  in  some  vague  way  that 
he  was  going  to  die,  and  he  struggled  to  attune  his  mind 
to  the  change.  He  offered  up  a  mild  prayer  to  God,  Who, 
he  felt,  must  be  very  near,  somewhere  up  in  these  clouds. 
Automatically  he  thought  of  the  vicar  at  lialvesham,  and 
a  certain  sense  of  comfort  came  to  him  at  the  reflection 
that  on  the  previous  day  he  had  taken  a  "cooking  of 
runner  beans"  to  God's  representative  in  that  village.  He 
felt  calmer  after  that,  but  the  horrid  machine  seemed  to 
go  higher  and  higher.  He  could  not  turn  in  his  seat  and 
he  could  see  nothing  but  sea  and  sky.  Of  course  the 
man  was  mad,  mad  as  a  March  hare.  Of  what  earthly 
use  could  he  be  to  any  one?  Besides,  he  had  talked  pure 
gibberish,  and  called  him  Paul  something,  when  he  had 
already  told  him  that  his  name  was  Sam.  The  thing 
would  fall  down  into  the  sea  soon,  and  thev  would  both 
be  drowned.  Well,  well,  he  had  almost  reached  three- 
score years  and  ten.  He  was  protected  by  a  screen,  but  it 
seemed  very  cold.  What  on  earth  would  Mr.  Hodge  say? 
There  was  no  one  left  to  work  the  land  but  a  fool  of  a 
boy  named  Billy  Whitehead  at  Dene's  Cross.  On,  on,  on 
they  went  at  a  furious  pace.  His  thoughts  danced  dis- 
connectedly from  incidents  of  his  youth,  conversations 
with  the  vicar,  hearty  meals  in  the  open,  a  frock  his  sister 
wore  on  the  day  of  the  postman's  wedding,  the  drone 
of  a  psalm,  the  illness  of  smie  ewes  belonging  to  Mr. 
Hodge.  Everything  seemed  to  be  moving  very  rapidly, 
upsetting  his  sense  of  time.  He  felt  outraged,  and  yet  at 
moments  there  was  something  entrancing  in  the  wild  ex- 
perience. He  seemed  to  be  living  at  an  incredible  pace. 
Perhaps  he  was  really  dead  and  on  his  way  to  the  king- 
dom of  God.     Perhaps  this  was  the  way  they  took  people. 

After  some  indefinite  period  he  suddenly  caught  sight  of 
a  long  strip  of  land.  Was  this  a  foreign  country,  or  were 
they  returning?     He  had  by  this  time  lost  all  feeling  of 


STACY  AUMONIER  6i 

fear.  He  became  interested  and  almost  disappointed. 
The  "airyplane"  was  not  such  a  fool  as  it  looked.  It  was 
very  wonderful  to  be  right  up  in  the  sky  like  this.  His 
dreams  were  suddenly  disturbed  by  a  fearful  noise.  He 
thought  the  machine  was  blown  to  pieces.  It  dived  and 
ducked  through  the  air,  and  things  were  bursting  all  round 
it  and  making  an  awful  din,  and  then  it  went  up  higher 
and  higher.  After  a  while  these  noises  ceased,  and  he 
felt  the  machine  gliding  downward.  They  were  really 
right  above  solid  land — trees,  fields,  streams,  and  white 
villages.  Down,  down,  down  they  glided.  This  was  a 
foreign  country.  There  were  straight  avenues  of  poplars 
and  canals.  This  was  not  Halvesham.  He  felt  the  thing 
glide  gently  and  bump  into  a  field.  Some  men  ran  for- 
ward and  approached  them,  and  the  mad  aviator  called 
out  to  them.  They  were  mostly  fat  men  in  gray  uni- 
forms, and  they  all  spoke  this  foreign  gibberish.  Some 
one  came  and  unstrapped  him.  He  was  very  stiff  and 
could  hardly  move.  An  exceptionally  gross-looking  man 
punched  him  in  the  ribs  and  roared  with  laughter.  They 
all  stood  round  and  laughed  at  him,  while  the  mad  avi- 
ator talked  to  them  and  kept  pointing  at  him.  Then  he 
said: 

"Old  Grandfather,  you  must  come  with  me." 

He  was  led  to  an  iron-roofed  building  and  shut  in  a 
little  room.  There  were  guards  outside  with  fixed  bay- 
onets. After  a  while  the  mad  aviator  appeared  again, 
accompanied  by  two  soldiers.  He  beckoned  him  to  fol- 
low. They  marched  through  a  quadrangle  and  entered 
another  building.  They  went  straight  into  an  office  where 
a  very  important-looking  man,  covered  with  medals,  sat 
in  an  easy-chair.  There  was  a  lot  of  saluting  and  click- 
ing of  heels.  The  aviator  pointed  at  Sam  and  said  some- 
thing, and  the  man  with  the  medals  started  at  sight  of 
him,  and  then  came  up  and  spoke  to  him  in  English. 

"What  is  your  name.^  Where  do  you  come  from.''  Your 
age?     The  name  and  birthplace  of  your  parents?" 

He  seemed  intensely  interested,  and  also  pulled  his  hair 
and  beard  to  see  if  they  came  off.  So  well  and  naturally 
did  he  and  the  aviator  speak  English  that  after  a  voluble 


62  "A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

examination  they  drew  apart,  and  continued  the  conversa- 
tion in  that  language.  And  the  extraordinary  conversa- 
tion was  of  this  nature: 

"It  is  a  most  remarkable  resemblance,"  said  the  man 
with  medals.  "Ujiglmiblich!  But  what  do  you  want  me 
to  do  with  him,  Hausemann?" 

"The  idea  came  to  me  suddenly,  Excellency,"  replied 
the  aviator,  "and  you  may  consider  it  worthless.  It  is 
just  this.  The  resemblance  is  so  amazing.  Paul  Jouperts 
has  given  us  more  valuable  information  than  any  one  at 
present  in  our  service,  and  the  English  know  that.  There 
is  an  award  of  five  thousand  francs  on  his  head.  Twice 
they  have  captured  him,  and  each  time  he  escaped.  All 
the  company  commanders  and  their  staff  have  his  photo- 
graph.    He  is  a  serious  thorn  in  their  flesh." 

"Well?"  replied  the  man  with  the  medals. 

The  aviator  whispered  confidentially: 

"Suppose,  your  Excellency,  that  they  found  the  dead 
body  of  Paul  Jouperts.''" 

"Well?"  replied  the  big  man. 

"My  suggestion  is  this.  To-morrow,  as  you  know,  the 
English  are  attacking  Hill  701,  which  for  tactical  reasons 
we  have  decided  to  evacuate.  If  after  the  attack  they  find 
the  dead  body  of  Paul  Jouperts  in,  say,  the  second  line, 
they  will  take  no  further  trouble  in  the  matter.  You 
know  their  lack  of  thoroughness.  Pardon  me,  I  was  two 
years  at  Oxford  University.  And  consequently  Paul  Jou- 
perts will  be  able  to  prosecute  his  labors  undisturbed." 

The  man  with  the  medals  twirled  his  mustache  and 
looked  thoughtfully  at  his  colleague. 

"Where  is  Paul  at  the  moment?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  acting  as  a  gardener  at  the  Convent  of  St.  Eloise, 
at  Mailleton-en-haut,  which,  as  you  know,  is  one  hundred 
meters  from  the  headquarters  of  the  British  central  army 
staff." 

The  man  with  the  medals  took  two  or  three  rapid  turns 
up  and  down  the  room,  then  he  said: 

"Your  plan  is  excellent,  Hausemann.  The  only  point 
of  difficulty  is  that  the  attack  started  this  morning." 

"This  morning?"  exclaimed  the  other. 


STACY  AUMONIER  63 

"Yes;  the  English  attacked  unexpectedly  at  dawn.  We 
have  already  evacuated  the  first  line.  We  shall  evacuate 
the  second  line  at  eleven-fifty.  It  is  now  ten-fifteen. 
There  may  be  just  time." 

He  looked  suddenly  at  old  Sam  in  the  way  that  a 
butcher  might  look  at  a  prize  heifer  at  an  agricultural 
show  and  remarked  casually: 

"Yes,  it  is  a  remarkable  resemblance.  It  seems  a  pity 
not  to — do  something  with  it." 

Then,  speaking  in  German,  he  added: 

"It  is  worth  trying.  And  if  it  succeeds  the  higher 
authorities  shall  hear  of  your  lucky  accident  and  inspira- 
tion, Herr  Hausemann.  Instruct  Ober-lieutenant  Schultz 
to  send  the  old  fool  by  two  orderlies  to  the  east  extremity 
of  Trench  38.  Keep  him  there  till  the  order  of  evacuation 
is  given,  then  shoot  him,  but  don't  disfigure  him,  and  lay 
him  out  face  upward." 

The  aviator  saluted  and  withdrew,  accompanied  by  his 
victim.  Old  Sam  had  not  understood  the  latter  part  of 
the  conversation,  and  he  did  not  catch  quite  all  that  was 
said  in  English;  but  he  felt  that  somehow  things  were 
not  becoming  too  promising,  and  it  was  time  to  assert 
himself.     So  he  remarked  when  thev  got  outside: 

"Now,  look  'ee  'ere,  Mister,  when  am  I  goin'  to  get  back 
to  my  turnips?" 

And  the  aviator  replied,  with  a  pleasant  smile: 

"Do  not  be  disturbed,  old  Grandfather.  You  shall  get 
back  to  the  soil  quite  soon." 

In  a  few  moments  he  found  himself  in  a  large  gray  car, 
accompanied  by  four  soldiers.  The  aviator  left  him.  The 
country  was  barren  and  horrible,  full  of  great  pits  and 
rents,  and  he  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  artillery  and  the 
shriek  of  shells.  Overhead,  aeroplanes  were  buzzing  an- 
grily. He  seem.ed  to  be  suddenly  transported  from  the 
kingdom  of  God  to  the  pit  of  darkness.  He  wondered 
whether  the  vicar  had  enjoyed  the  runner  beans.  He 
could  not  imagine  runner  beans  growing  here;  runner 
beans,  aye,  or  anything  else.  If  this  was  a  foreign  coun- 
try, give  him  dear  old  England! 

Gr-r-r!  bang!    Something  exploded  just  at  the  rear  of 


64  "A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

the  car.  The  soldiers  ducked,  and  one  of  them  pushed 
him  in  the  stomach  and  swore. 

"An  ugly-looking  lout,"  he  thought.  "If  I  wor  twenty- 
years  younger,  I'd  give  him  a  punch  in  the  eye  that  'u'd 
make  him  sit  up." 

The  car  came  to  a  halt  by  a  broken  wall.  The  party 
hurried  out  and  dived  behind  a  mound.  He  was  pulled 
down  a  kind  of  shaft,  and  found  himself  in  a  room  buried 
right  underground,  where  three  officers  were  drinking  and 
smoking.  The  soldiers  saluted  and  handed  them  a  type- 
written despatch.  The  officers  looked  at  him  drunkenly, 
and  one  came  up  and  pulled  his  beard  and  spat  in  his  face 
and  called  him  "an  old  English  swine."  He  then  shouted 
out  some  instructions  to  the  soldiers,  and  they  led  him 
out  into  the  narrow  trench.  One  walked  behind  him,  and 
occasionally  prodded  him  with  the  butt-end  of  a  gun. 
The  trenches  were  half  full  of  water  and  reeked  of  gases, 
powder,  and  decaying  matter.  Shells  were  constantly 
bursting  overhead,  and  in  places  the  trenches  had 
crumbled  and  were  nearly  blocked  up.  They  stumbled 
on,  sometimes  falling,  sometimes  dodging  moving  masses, 
and  occasionally  crawling  over  the  dead  bodies  of  men. 
At  last  they  reached  a  deserted-looking  trench,  and  one 
of  the  soldiers  pushed  him  into  the  corner  of  it  and 
growled  something,  and  then  disappeared  round  the  angle. 
Old  Sam  was  exhausted.  He  leaned  panting  against  the 
mud  wall,  expecting  every  minute  to  be  blown  to  pieces 
by  one  of  those  infernal  things  that  seemed  to  be  getting 
more  and  more  insistent.  The  din  went  on  for  nearly 
twenty  minutes,  and  he  was  alone  in  the  trench.  He 
fancied  he  heard  a  whistle  amidst  the  din.  Suddenly  one 
of  the  soldiers  who  had  accompanied  him  came  stealthily 
round  the  corner,  and  there  was  a  look  in  his  eye  old 
Sam  did  not  like.  When  he  was  within  five  yards  the 
soldier  raised  his  rifle  and  pointed  it  at  Sam's  body.  Some 
instinct  impelled  the  old  man  at  that  instant  to  throw 
himself  forward  on  his  face.  As  he  did  so  he  was  aware 
of  a  terrible  explosion,  and  he  had  just  time  to  observe 
the  soldier  falling  in  a  heap  near  him,  and  then  he  lost 
consciousness. 


STACY  AUMONIER  65 

His  consciousness  appeared  to  return  to  him  with  a 
snap.  He  was  lying  on  a  plank  in  a  building,  and  he 
heard  some  one  say: 

"I  believe  the  old  boy's  English." 

He  looked  round.  There  were  a  lot  of  men  lying  there, 
and  others  in  khaki  and  white  overalls  were  busy  among 
them.     He  sat  up,  rubbed  his  head,  and  said: 

"Hi,  IVIister,  where  be  I  now?" 

Some  one  laughed,  and  a  young  man  came  up  and 
said : 

"Well,  old  man,  you  were  very  nearly  in  hell.  Who 
the  devil  are  you?" 

Some  one  came  up,  and  two  of  them  were  discussing 
him.     One  of  them  said: 

"He's  quite  all  right.  He  was  only  knocked  out.  Bet- 
ter take  him  in  to  the  colonel.     He  may  be  a  spy." 

The  other  came  up,  touched  his  shoulder,  and  re- 
marked: 

"Can  you  walk,  Uncle?" 

He  replied: 

"Aye,  I  can  walk  all  roight." 

"That's  an  old  sport!" 

The  young  man  took  his  arm  and  helped  him  out  of  the 
room  into  a  courtyard.  They  entered  another  room, 
where  an  elderly,  kind-faced  officer  was  seated  at  a  desk. 
The  officer  looked  up  and  exclaimed: 

"Good  God!  Bradshaw,  do  you  know  who  you've  got 
there?" 

The  younger  one  said: 

"No.     Who,   sir?" 

"It's  Paul  Jouperts!"  exclaimed  the  colonel. 

"Paul  Jouperts!   Great  Scott!" 

The  older  officer  addressed  himself  to  Sam.     He  said: 

"Well,  we've  got  you  once  more,  Paul.  We  shall  have 
to  be  a  little  more  careful  this  time." 

The  young  officer  said: 

"Shall  I  detail  a  squad,  sir?" 

"We  can't  shoot  him  without  a  courtmartial,"  rephed 
the  kind-faced  senior. 

Then  Sam  interpolated: 


(>(i  "A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

"Look  'ee  'ere,  sir,  I'm  fair'  sick  of  all  this.  My  name 
bean't  Paul.  My  name's  Sam.  I  was  a-thinnin'  a  loine 
o'  turnips — " 

Both  officers  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  younger  one 
said: 

"Good !  damn  good !  Isn't  it  amazing,  sir,  the  way 
they  not  only  learn  the  language,  but  even  take  the  trouble 
to  learn  a  dialect!" 

The  older  man  busied  himself  with  some  papers. 

"Well,  Sam,"  he  remarked,  "you  shall  be  given  a  chance 
to  prove  your  identity.  Our  methods  are  less  drastic  than 
those  of  your  Boche  masters.  What  part  of  England  are 
you  supposed  to  come  from?  Let's  see  how  much  you 
can  bluff  us  with  your  topographical  knowledge." 

"I  was  a-thinnin'  a  loine  o'  turnips  this  mornin'  at 
'alf-past  seven  on  Mr.  Hodge's  farm  at  Halvesham  when 
one  o'  these  'ere  airyplanes  came  down  among  the  swedes. 
I  tells  'e  to  get  clear  o'  that,  when  the  feller  what  gets  out 
o'  the  car  'e  drahs  a  revowlver  and  'e  says,  'You  must 
'company  I — '  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  the  senior  officer,  "that's  all 
very  good.  Now  tell  me — where  is  Halvesham.''  What  is 
the  name  of  the  local  vicar?     I'm  sure  you'd  know  that." 

Old  Sam  rubbed  his  chin. 

"I  sits  under  the  Reverend  David  Pryce,  Mister,  and 
a  good,  God-fearin'  man  he  be.  I  took  him  a  cookin'  o' 
runner  beans  on'y  yesterday.  I  works  for  Mr.  Hodge, 
what  owns  Greenway  Manor  and  'as  a  stud-farm  at  New- 
market, they  say." 

"Charles  Hodge?"  asked  the  young  officer. 

"Aye,  Charlie  Hodge.  You  write  and  ask  un  if  he 
knows  old  Sam  Gates." 

The  two  officers  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  older 
one  looked  at  Sam  more  closely. 

"It's  very  extraordinary,"  he  remarked. 

"Everybody  knows  Charlie  Hodge,"  added  the  younger 
officer. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  a  wave  of  genius  swept 
over  old  Sam.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  suddenly 
jerked  out: 


STACY  AUMOWIER  67 

"What's  more,  I  can  tell  'ee  where  this  yere  Paul  is. 
He's  actin'  a  gardener  in  a  convent  at — "  He  puckered 
up  his  brows,  fumbled  with  his  hat,  and  then  got  out, 
"Mighteno." 

The  older  officer  gasped. 

"Mailleton-en-haut!  Good  God!  what  makes  you  say 
that,  old  man.^" 

Sam  tried  to  give  an  account  of  his  experience  and  the 
things  he  had  heard  said  by  the  German  officers;  but  he 
was  getting  tired,  and  he  broke  off  in  the  middle  to  say: 

"Ye  haven't  a  bite  o'  somethin'  to  eat,  I  suppose. 
Mister;  or  a  glass  o'  beer.'  I  usually  'as  my  dinner  at 
twelve  o'clock." 

Both  the  officers  laughed,  and  the  older  said: 

"Get  him  some  food,  Bradshaw,  and  a  bottle  of  beer 
from  the  mess.  We'll  keep  this  old  man  here.  He  in- 
terests me." 

While  the  younger  man  was  doing  this,  the  chief 
pressed  a  button  and  summoned  another  junior  officer. 

"Gateshead,"  he  remarked,  "ring  up  the  G.  H.  Q.  and 
instruct  them  to  arrest  the  gardener  in  that  convent  at  the 
top  of  the  hill  and  then  to  report." 

The  officer  saluted  and  went  out,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
a  tray  of  hot  food  and  a  large  bottle  of  beer  Avere  brought 
to  the  old  man,  and  he  was  left  alone  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  to  negotiate  this  welcome  compensation.  And  in 
the  execution  he  did  himself  and  his  county  credit.  In 
the  meanwhile  the  officers  were  very  busy.  People  were 
coming  and  going  and  examining  maps,  and  telephone 
bells  were  ringing  furiously.  They  did  not  disturb  old 
Sam's  gastric  operations.  He  cleaned  up  the  mess  tins 
and  finished  the  last  drop  of  beer.  The  senior  officer 
found  time  to  offer  him  a  cigarette,  but  he  replied: 

"Thank  'ee  kindly,  sir,  but  Pd  rather  smoke  my  pipe." 

The  colonel  smiled  and  said: 

"Oh,  all  right;  smoke  away." 

He  lighted  up,  and  the  fumes  of  the  shag  permeated  the 
room.  Some  one  opened  another  window,  and  the  young 
officer  who  had  addressed  him  at  first  suddenly  looked  at 
him  and  exclaimed: 


68  "A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

"Innocent,  by  God !  You  couldn't  get  shag  like  that 
anywhere  but  in  Norfolk." 

It  must  have  been  an  hour  later  when  another  officer 
entered  and  saluted. 

"Message  from  the  G.  H.  Q.,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Well?" 

"They  have  arrested  the  gardener  at  the  convent  of  St. 
Eloise,  and  they  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  is 
the  notorious  Paul  Jouperts." 

The  colonel  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  beamed.  He  came 
over  to  old  Sam  and  shook  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Gates,"  he  said,  "you  are  an  old  brick.  You  will 
probably  hear  more  of  this.  You  have  probably  been  the 
means  of  delivering  something  very  useful  into  our  hands. 
Your  own  honor  is  vindicated.  A  loving  Government  will 
probably  award  you  five  shillings  or  a  Victoria  Cross 
or  something  of  that  sort.  In  the  meantime,  what  can  I 
do  for  your" 

Old  Sam  scratched  his  chin. 

"I  want  to  get  back  'ome,"  he  said. 

"Well,  even  that  might  be  arranged." 

"I  want  to  get  back  'ome  in  toime  for  tea." 

"What  time  do  you  have  tea?" 

"Foive  o'clock  or  thereabouts." 

"I  see." 

A  kindly  smile  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  colonel.  He 
turned  to  another  officer  standing  by  the  table  and  said: 

"Raikes,  is  any  one  going  across  this  afternoon  with 
despatches?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  other  officer.  "Commander 
Jennings  is  leaving  at  three  o'clock." 

"You  might  ask  him  if  he  could  see  me." 

Within  ten  minutes  a  young  man  in  a  flight-command- 
er's uniform  entered. 

"Ah,  Jennings,"  said  the  colonel,  "here  is  a  little  affair 
which  concerns  the  honor  of  the  British  army.  My  friend 
here,  Sam  Gates,  has  come  over  from  Halvesham,  in  Nor- 
folk, in  order  to  give  us  valuable  information.  I  have 
promised  him  that  he  shall  get  home  to  tea  at  five  o'clock. 
Can  you  take  a  passenger?" 


STACY  AUMONIER  69 

The  young  man  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed, 

"Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  an  old  sport!  Yes,  I  ex- 
pect I  can  manage  it.     Where  is  the  God-forsaken  place?" 

A  large  ordnance-map  of  Norfolk  (which  had  been 
captured  from  a  German  officer)  was  produced,  and  the 
young  man  studied  it  closely. 

At  three  o'clock  precisely  old  Sam,  finding  himself 
something  of  a  hero  and  quite  glad  to  escape  from  the 
embarrassment  which  the  position  entailed  upon  him,  once 
more  sped  skyward  in  a  "dratted  airyplane." 

At  twenty  minutes  to  five  he  landed  once  more  among 
Mr.  Hodge's  swedes.  The  breezy  young  airman  shook 
hands  with  him  and  departed  inland.  Old  Sam  sat  down 
and  surveyed  the  familiar  field  of  turnips. 

"A  noice  thing,  I  must  say!"  he  muttered  to  himself 
as  he  looked  along  the  lines  of  unthinned  turnips.  He 
still  had  twenty  minutes,  and  so  he  went  slowly  along  and 
completed  a  line  which  he  had  begun  in  the  morning.  He 
then  deliberately  packed  up  his  dinner-things  and  his  tools 
and  started  out  for  home. 

As  he  came  round  the  corner  of  Stillway's  meadow  and 
the  cottage  came  in  view,  his  niece  stepped  out  of  the 
copse  with  a  basket  on  her  arm. 

"Well,  Uncle,"  she  said,  "is  there  any  noos?" 

It  was  then  that  old  Sam  really  lost  his  temper. 

"Noos!"  he  said.  "Noos!  Drat  the  girl!  What  noos 
should  there  be?  Sixty-nine  year'  I  live  in  these  'ere 
parts,  hoein'  and  wcedin'  and  thinnin',  and  mindin'  Charlie 
Hodge's  sheep.  Am  I  one  o'  these  'ere  story-book  folk 
havin'  noos  'appen  to  me  all  the  time?  Ain't  it  enough, 
ye  silly,  dab-faced  zany,  to  earn  enough  to  buy  a  bite  o' 
some'at  to  eat  and  a  glass  o'  beer  and  a  place  to  rest  a's 
head  o'night  without  always  wantin'  noos,  noos,  noos !  I 
tell  'ee  it's  this  that  leads  'ee  to  'alf  the  troubles  in  the 
world.     Devil  take  the  noos !" 

And  turning  his  back  on  her,  he  went  fuming  up  the 
hill. 


Collier's,  The  National  Weekly 


"MOMMA" 

BY 

RUPERT  HUGHES 


"MOMMA" ' 
By  RUPERT  HUGHES 

MOMMA  was  sick,  right  sick.  Momma  was  awful 
sick !  Momma  looked  like  she  was  going  to  die 
any  minute.  And  she  didn't  care  if  she  did.  She  up  and 
as  good  as  told  Poppa  that. 

Poppa  was  scared  almost  to  death  when  he  realized  it. 
He  was  all  alone  with  her,  and  had  none  of  the  children 
to  talk  to  about  it;  though,  for  the  matter  of  that,  Momma 
and  Poppa  had  never  told  the  children  about  their  own 
ailments.  And  now  the  children  had  growed  up  and 
vamoosed.  All  that  was  left  of  the  fact  that  there  ever 
had  been  any  children  round  the  place  was  the  two  old 
names  Momma  and  Poppa  that  the  old  folks  had  caught 
by  contagion  and  got  to  calling  each  other  by  from  hearing 
themselves  called  them  by  the  children  when  they  were 
children. 

Momma  and  Poppa  had  been  drifting  down  life  like  a 
pair  of  old  mud  turtles  floating  south  on  an  old  log.  And 
now  all  of  a  sudden  one  of  them  felt  that  the  other'n  was 
going  to  roll  off  into  the  muddy  water  and  sink  downward, 
backward,  dead! 

Perhaps  the  poor  turtles  know  and  grieve  and  mourn  to 
the  full  capacity  of  their  tight  shells. 

But  Poppa  was  a  human,  gifted  with  sympathy.  He 
was  old  acquaintances  with  grief  of  every  sort,  a  pitiful 
postgraduate  in  all  a  man  knows  who  has  been  a  lover,  a 
husband,  and  a  father,  and  has  seen  children  born  from 
one  pain  and  ache  to  another  and  another,  who  has  seen 
some  of  his  own  little  children  die,  or  pray  for  death  in 
the  long  procession  of  disappointments  and  thwarted 
hopes  that  begin  with  the  first  irretrievable  rattle  lost  over 
the  edge  of  the  crib,  and  pass  on  to  the  rainy  holidays,  the 

*  Copyright,    1920,   by   Collier's,    The   National   IFeekly. 


74  "MOMMA" 

sunny  schooldays,  the  warm  Christmases,  cracked  dolls, 
lost  games,  indignities  from  parents  who  misunderstand 
and  spank,  from  sweethearts  who  misunderstand  and 
flirt,  and  so  on  and  so  forth  to  the  dreary,  shabby  camp- 
follower  sorrows  that  trudge  along  at  the  tail  end  of  the 
parade. 

Poppa's  habit  had  been  to  take  things  as  they  come, 
because,  as  somebody  said,  that's  the  only  way  they  come. 
He  had  grown  so  jaded  with  existence  that  he  became 
a  veteran  Horatio,  who,  as  Will  Shakespeare  said,  "for- 
tune's buffets  and  rewards  hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks." 

Nothing  had  excited  him  much  of  late  at  the  store,  at 
home,  at  church,  the  lodge,  or  in  the  newspapers.  As  he 
had  worn  what  seemed  to  be  the  same  suit  of  clothes  for 
years,  so  his  face  had  worn  the  same  suit  of  expressions. 
It  was  hard  to  tell  his  smile  from  his  scowl.  Funny  things 
all  had  a  touch  of  misfortune  in  them  for  somebody,  and 
sad  things  were  all  kind  of  funny,  so  the  same  twitch  at 
the  muscles  about  his  mouth  served  for  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  everything  unusual. 

But  now,  when  Momma  almost  wisht  she  was  dead, 
that  last  dreadful  word  twitched  Poppa's  very  heart.  He 
felt  as  if  in  the  calm  slumber  of  habitude  somebody  had 
reached  into  his  breast  and  given  his  heart  a  yank.  And 
it  shivered  and  rattled  as  an  old  doorbell  clamors  pulled 
hard  at  midnight  by  somebody  crying:  "Wake  up!  Your 
house  is  on  fire!" 

Poppa  woke  up.  Instinct  told  him  that  he  must  save 
Momma  and  himself  from  the  incredible  disaster  of  her 
death.  His  business  worries  had  kept  him  from  noticing 
the  little  symptoms  of  her  decline,  though  she  had  stopped 
quarreling  with  him,  and  had  simply  quarreled  with  life, 
with  everything:  the  food,  the  neighbors,  her  clothes,  the 
weather,  her  stummick,  her  head,  her  eyes,  her  feet,  her 
hands,  her  appetite,  her  looks — she  even  complained  of 
her  looks ! 

And  now,  as  if  scales  had  been  scraped  off  his  eyes, 
Poppa  saw  that  Momma  didn't  look  good.  She  didn't 
look  a  bit  good.     She  looked  something  scandalous. 


RUPERT   HUGHES  75 

Poppa  belonged  to  a  lodge,  and  he  had  gone  to  number- 
less funerals.  Yet  he  had  hardly  even  imagined  that  some 
day  his  fellow  members  might  in  turn  come  to  his  house, 
all  dressed  up  with  sashes  and  plumes  and  swords,  to 
march  alongside  the  black  wagon  that  should  carry  his 
one  woman  in  a  box  vo  a  ditch. 

As  if  some  one  had  set  a  moving  picture  going  against 
the  wall  of  his  own  sitting  room,  he  saw  the  whole  thing, 
and  he  shuddered  back  from  it  with  a  cry  that  struck  in- 
ward and  cut  downward  and  stuck.  He  had  a  fishbone 
in  his  throat. 

He  became  suddenly  young  and  arrantly  afraid.  He 
wanted  to  run  to  his  wiie  and  cling  to  her  and  beg  her 
not  to  think  of  such  things.  But  he  had  given  up  the 
habit  of  hugging  jMomma  or  taking  her  into  his  lap  or 
sitting  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  since  the  ancient  days 
when  the  first  child  began  to  take  notice. 

He  wanted  to  go  back  to  the  old  ways,  but  it  would 
have  looked  foolish,  and  the  two  frumps  had  been  afraid 
of  each  other's  love  for  years  and  years. 

He  did  nothing  and  said  nothing;  but  he  did  a  heap  of 
thinking.  "Heap"  was  the  word,  for  his  thoughts  were 
like  a  pile  of  dead  leaves,  tarnished,  crumpled  brown  leaves 
that  had  been  green  and  radiant  and  breathing  once. 

His  thoughts  were  a  heap  of  autumnal  rubbish  set  on 
fire.  Red  torment  ran  through  them,  and  they  writhed 
and  twisted  as  if  a  new  life  had  come  back  to  them  just 
that  they  might  suffer  a  little  more. 

The  terror  stung  him  to  a  determination.  "I'll  call  the 
doctor,"  he  said.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  shuffled  to 
the  telephone.  Momma  ran  after  him  and  drageed  his 
hands  down,  crying:  "I  don't  want  to  see  that  old  fool. 
I'll  go  jump  in  the  river  if  you  send  for  him.  I  couldn't 
stand  the  sight  of  him." 

"When  a  woman's  too  sick  to  see  the  doctor,"  Poppa 
said,  "it's  high  time  somebody  called  him  in." 

He  backed  round  and  bunted  her  away  with  the  mini- 
mum of  grace  and  the  maximum  of  devotion,  and  held 
her  at  a  distance  until  he  got  the  number. 

Momma  flopped  helplessly  into  a  chair  and  cried  like 


76  ''MOMMA" 

a  petulant  little  girl,  while  Poppa  ordered  the  doctor  to 
put  on  his  shoes  and  come  right  over. 

She  was  still  pouting  like  a  little  girl  when  Dr.  Noxon 
came.  Her  lips  were  pushed  out  and  her  chin  was  purse- 
drawn  when  he  asked  her  what  was  the  matter  of  her. 
He  held  her  wrist  in  one  hand  and  his  watch  in  the  other, 
glanced  at  her  tongue,  and  in  a  lowered  voice  asked  one  or 
two  very  personal  questions. 

Poppa  did  most  of  the  talking,  while  Dr.  Noxon  nodded 
and  said:  "I  see,  I  see."  As  might  have  been  expected, 
he  left  two  sets  of  pills,  one  kind  to  be  taken  after  each 
meal  and  before  retiring,  and  another  kind  of  pill  to  be 
taken  on  arising  and  every  three  hours. 

Momma  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing  in  the  old 
owl's  face,  and  as  soon  as  he  closed  the  door  she  bust 
right  out.  It  was  not  a  nice  laugh — hysterics  like.  She 
whooped:  "Pve  seen  that  old  nuisance  leave  those  same 
fool  pills  on  those  same  fool  pieces  of  paper  since  we  first 
came  to  Carthage  and  called  him  in.  Everybody  that 
ever  took  'em  has  died,  and  I  guess  it's  my  turn!  And 
I  don't  care!" 

Her  laughter  ended  in  the  wild  weeping  of  a  young 
girl,  and  Poppa  was  almost  distracted.  She  went  to  bed 
all  wore  out,  but  she  couldn't  sleep. 

She  kept  him  awake  worse  when  she  laid  still  trying 
not  to  wake  him  than  she  did  when  she  thrashed  about 
and  groaned. 

That  was  a  long  night,  and  Poppa  entertained  a  whole 
herd  of  nightmares  without  falling  asleep,  or,  if  he  did, 
he  didn't  know  it  and  it  didn't  do  him  a  mite  of  good. 

He  waited  a  day  or  two  to  see  what  effect  Dr.  Noxon's 
immemorial  pills  would  have.  They  had  even  less  effect 
than  he  expected  they  would. 

The  third  day  he  took  the  almost  sacrilegious  step  of 
seeing  one  of  the  other  doctors.  Dr.  Champe  refused  to 
call  since  Mrs.  Lundy  was  known  to  be  one  of  Dr.  Noxon's 
regular  customers,  a  life  member  in  his  pill  association. 

But  Poppa  threatened  to  brain  Champe  if  he  didn't  see 
Momma,  and  he  consented  to  see  her  if  she  would  call 


RUPERT   HUGHES  77 

after  dark.  Poppa  had  to  drive  her  there  "like  a  pig  to 
market,"  he  said,  and  he  was  more  wore  out  than  what 
she  was. 

Dr.  Champe  gave  spoon  medicines.  They  were  bitter- 
sweet and  sticky,  and  had  no  effect  whatever  except  to 
cause  a  brief  ague  of  nausea  and  leave  a  nasty  taste  on 
the  tongue. 

A  third  doctor  tried  massage,  another  electricity. 
Momma  even  flirted  with  science — science  with  a  capital 
S.  But  the  optimism  that  was  ladled  out  to  her  made 
her  sicker  than  Dr.  Champe's  sticky  sweet  medicine.  She 
was  in  one  of  those  moods  when  a  cheerful  word  or  a 
smile  is  a  deadly  insult. 

The  last  doctor  in  town  advised  a  trip,  a  change  of 
climate  and  environment.  Momma  ridiculed  the  idea, 
but  Poppa  telegraphed  their  married  daughter  in  Terre 
Haute  that  Momma  was  coming,  and  he  fairly  boosted  her 
on  the  train. 

Momma  was  dismal  and  ashamed  of  being  dumped  as 
a  burden  on  a  daughter  she  had  always  babied  even  after 
Hattie  (now  Mrs.  Fred  Eppes)  had  babies  of  her  own. 
So  the  reunion  lacked  the  delight  that  belonged  to  the  oc- 
casion. 

Hattie  hugged  her  mother  hard  and  squealed:  "Why, 
Momma,  you're  looking  fine!" 

Momma  was  doleful  enough  to  remember  her  own 
woes,  and  she  groaned:  "You  just  say  that!  I  don't  feel 
a  bit  good  and  I'm  a  sight!  Don't  show  me  to  any  of 
your  swell  Terra  Hut  friends,  for  I'll  disgrace  you." 

Hattie  had  hard  sledding  before  her.  Her  mother 
did  not  even  want  to  cheer  up.  She  wanted  to  be  sick, 
and  she  doubled  her  misery  by  bewailing  the  fact  that  she 
couldn't  throw  off  her  gloom.  She  tried  to  smile  once  or 
twice,  but  Hattie  begged  her  not  to. 

Since  Momma  would  neither  go  calling  nor  receive 
callers,  she  was  not  easy  to  entertain.  She  was  ashamed 
of  her  shabby  clothes  and  her  dowdy  appearance,  and  so 
was  Hattie. 

Hattie  would  not  admit  it,  though  she  did  say  that 
Poppa,  with  all  his  money,  ought  to  dress  her  up  better. 


78  "MOMMA" 

Poor  Poppa  had  tried  to.  The  average  American  hus- 
band does  not  often  get  the  chance  to  complain  of  his 
wife's  thrift  in  clothes,  but  Mr.  Lundy,  little  as  he  noticed 
such  things,  had  finally  urged  Momma  to  spend  a  little 
more  money  on  duds  now  that  the  children  were  buying 
their  own.  But  his  well-meant  hints  had  only  depressed 
her  the  more,  and  she  had  retorted  that  he  was  sick  and 
tired  of  her  and  her  old  face. 

He  had  dropped  the  subject.  Hattie  had  no  better  suc- 
cess. All  that  she  succeeded  in  accomplishing  was  a 
round  of  the  Terre  Haute  physicians — especially  of  those 
frightful  personages  known  as  "specialists."  Each  of 
these  found  his  specialty  in  Momma,  and  went  after  it. 
One  of  them  got  away  with  a  large  number  of  her  teeth 
before  she  could  fight  him  off. 

Others  offered  to  remove  various  parts  of  her,  but  she 
declined  to  be  separated  from  any  more  of  her  fixtures. 

She  reduced  Hattie's  general  practitioner  almost  to  ner- 
vous prostration,  and  at  last,  in  order  to  get  her  off  his 
hands  and  off  her  daughter's  nerves,  he  casually  recom- 
mended a  New  York  specialist,  Dr.  Courtneidge,  who  had 
the  monopoly  on  a  very  abstruse  operation  dealing  with 
the  pancreas  or  something  that  Momma  didn't  even  know 
she  had. 

She  was  quite  overawed  at  finding  herself  the  proud 
possessor  of  such  a  thing.  She  felt  like  an  old  watch  that 
has  suddenly  learned  it  has  had  jewelled  movements  all 
these  years.  But  after  a  few  hours  of  being  interested 
in  herself  she  slumped  again  and  said  she  guessed  she'd 
take  her  old  pancreas  back  to  Carthage  with  her.  She'd 
got  along  with  it  so  far,  and,  seeing  as  she'd  denied  her- 
self a  trip  to  New  York  all  her  life  for  fun,  she  certainly 
wa'nt  going  all  that  ways  to  let  a  doctor  poke  a  knife  into 
her. 

Hattie  fumed  and  bullied  in  vain  for  a  day  or  two,  then 
she  fired  off  a  telegram  to  Poppa  to  come  over  at  once. 

Poppa  was  putting  through  a  big  land  deal  and  the  tele- 
gram nearly  jolted  him  out  of  his  wits.  He  would  not 
wait  to  extend  his  option.     He  ran  down  to  the  station 


RUPERT   HUGHES  79 

and  swung  on  a  train  just  pulling  out.  He  did  not  even 
stop  for  the  collar,  toothbrush,  and  nightgown  that  consti- 
tuted his  usual  going-away  equipment. 

He  spent  a  horrible  night  in  the  smoking  car,  sleeping 
among  his  distorted  limbs  like  a  wrecked  grasshopper.  At 
Terre  Haute  he  took  a  taxicab  to  Hattie's  house,  and  was 
in  such  a  mental  and  facial  disarray  when  he  rang  the  bell 
that  the  maid  who  answered  it  slammed  the  door  on  him 
and  ran  to  tell  her  mistress  that  there  was  a  crazy  man  on 
the  porch. 

Hattie  peeked  through  the  little  side  window  and  recog- 
nized her  father,  and  flung  open  the  door  and  her  arms  to 
him. 

He  expected  to  find  Momma  on  her  deathbed,  but  she 
was  at  breakfast,  crying  into  her  rolled  oats. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  of  you,  Momma?"  he 
gasped. 

"Nothing's  the  matter  of  me,"  she  snapped.  "What  on 
earth's  the  matter  of  you?  Had  your  breakfast?  Sed- 
down!  And — Hattie,  could  you  ask  your  girl  to  fry  him 
a  negg — turned  over,  you  remember;  and  if  the  coffee's 
out,  here  you  can  have  the  rest  of  mine." 

Poppa  sank  into  a  chair  and  consented  to  break  his  fast 
while  the  news  was  broken  to  him.  The  word  "pancreas" 
dazed  him.  It  sounded  like  something  for  breakfast  till 
Hattie  explained.  Then  he  was  convinced.  There  is 
something  about  a  new  word  that  solves  all  mysteries  for 
most  people,  and  Poppa  was  very  much  like  most  people. 

When  Hattie  had  explained  that  Dr.  Appleyard  himself 
had  settled  upon  the  pancreas  and  Its  malfunctioning,  or 
something  like  that,  as  the  secret  of  Momma's  indomitable 
obscurities.  Poppa  set  his  jaw. 

"When's  first  train  to  N'York?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  not  goin',  I  tell  you,"  Momma  pealed.  "I'm  not 
goln'  one  step." 

"You  are  goln'!"  Poppa  stormed.  "Why  ain't  you 
goin'?" 

"Because  it  costs  too  much  money." 

That  is  a  thing  a  man  likes  to  say  for  himself.  He  can- 
not endure  to  hear  anyone  else  tell  it  to  him.     It  is  in- 


80  "MOMMA" 

suiting.  When  the  children  were  young,  Momma  had 
always  said  it  first  when  she  wanted  to  make  sure  of  his 
consenting  to  an  expenditure.  Things  she  would  never 
have  browbeaten  or  wept  out  of  him  into  permitting,  she 
could  always  force  him  to  force  her  to  accept  by  that  ap- 
proach— using  the  word  "force"  as  card  tricksters  do  when 
they  deftly  permit  you  to  drag  from  them  the  one  card 
that  will  work  the  trick. 

But  now  Momma  was  not  stacking  the  cards.  She  had 
economized  for  so  many  decades  that  money  had  become 
a  thing  sacrosanct.  Unwittingly  she  had  dealt  Poppa  the 
deadliest  humiliation  in  her  power,  for  he  was  what 
Carthage  people  called  "rich";  he  had  lands  and  lands  in 
his  own  and  Momma's  name,  and  big  sums  out  on  mort- 
gages. 

A  standard  of  living  that  had  been  forced  on  him  by  his 
early  poverty  had  sufficed  him  in  his  gradual  wealth. 

A  new  suit  of  clothes  was  a  nuisance.  Extra  servants 
were  like  unwelcome  guests  that  never  went  home.  The 
simplest  food  everlastingly  repeated  was  all  his  stomach 
craved. 

Momma  would  as  soon  have  had  the  measles  as  a 
limousine,  and  jewels  on  her  fingers  would  have  crippled 
her  like  inflammatory  rheumatism.  The  changing  styles 
of  Paris  interested  her  as  much  as  the  tides  of  Barnegat. 
She  had  not  changed  the  manner  of  wearing  her  hair  since 
she  was  a  mother  for  the  first  time,  and  her  dresses  were 
made  by  a  sewing  woman  who  was  more  interested  in  the 
gossip  of  the  families  she  moved  among  than  in  the  daily 
hints  from  Paris. 

With  money  pouring  in  in  amounts  whose  importance 
neither  husband  nor  wife  ever  thought  of  translating  into 
luxuries,  and  seeping  out  in  a  slow  trickle,  the  old  couple 
had  come  near  to  being  misers  without  dreaming  of  stingi- 
ness. 

This  last  big  land  deal  of  Poppa's  had  brought  him  to 
a  sudden  realization  that  he  was  a  pretty  big  fellow.  The 
banks  had  begun  to  turn  to  him  with  opportunities  for 
large  turnovers,  and  bonds  were  offered  him  in  bundles. 

And  so  when  Momma  implied  that  a  trip  to  New  York, 


RUPERT   HUGHES  8i 

to  save  her  life  maybe,  was  beyond  his  means,  he  was  hurt 
and  enraged,  and  in  his  anger  he  rose  to  an  eloquence  of 
gallantry  he  never  would  have  achieved  in  a  more  temper- 
ate mood. 

"Too  much  money,  hey?  You  think  you  can't  afford 
it,  do  you?  Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  can  afford  to  send 
you  to  any  town  that  anybody  else  can  afford  to  go  to. 
And  if  that  old  pankers  doctor  has  got  any  patients  at  tall 
besides  millionaires,  and  if  he  don't  charge  more'n  a  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  a  patient,  you  can  have  the  best 
operation  he's  got  in  his  shop." 

Alomma  braced  up  a  bit  at  this  and  gave  Hattie  a  proud 
look  as  much  as  to  say:  "You  haven't  married  the  only 
successful  man  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Eppes."  But  she  shook 
her  head. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  bankrupt  yourself  shippin'  me  to 
any  doctor,  for  I'm  not  worth  it.  And  that's  all  there  is 
about  it." 

"Not  worth  it?"  Poppa  cried  with  the  fervor,  if  not  the 
rhetoric,  of  a  Romeo.  "Well,  if  you  ain't  worth  it,  I'd  like 
to  know  who  is?  All  I  got  is  none  too  much  to  spend 
on  you.  And  if  I  had  ten  times  as  much,  what'd  it  be 
worth  if  I  lost  you,  jMomma?" 

This  was  so  poetic  and  beautiful  that  Momma  had  to  get 
mad  or  break  down  and  beller,  so  she  put  up  a  big  fight. 

"Oh,  that's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say,  but  what  it 
comes  down  to  is:  You're  sending  me  away  to  die  like  a 
dawg  outside  somewheres;  you  want  to  treat  me  the  way 
they  do  the  old  rats  that  they  give  a  poison  to  that  guar- 
antees they  don't  die  in  the  house." 

"Aw,  Momma!"  was  all  Poppa  could  groan.  But 
Hattie  lit  into  her  mother  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  true  and 
dutiful  American  child. 

"Why,  Momma  Lundy!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself.  You  must  be  out  of  your  mind  to  talk  thataway 
when  Poppa  is  so  nice  and  so  worried." 

"That's  right!  Pick  on  me!"  Momma  moaned,  tak- 
ing unfair  refuge  in  cowardly  tears.  "But  I  notice  no- 
body is  offering  to  go  to  New  York  with  me." 

Hattie  spoke  first.     "I'd  go  in  a  minute  if  I  could  leave 


82  "MOMMA" 

the  children,  but  with  little  Eddie  having  his  tonsils  re- 
moved to-morrow  and  Fannie's  chicken  pox  just  coming 
out—" 

Poppa  sighed.     "I'll  go,  of  course,  if  you  want  me  to." 

Momma  saw  the  reluctance  in  his  assent,  and,  though 
she  knew  that  he  had  some  strong  business  reason  behind 
it,  her  cantankerous  mood  took  umbrage  at  it.  "What'd 
I  tell  you?  Well,  I  will  go.  I'll  go  all  by  myself,  to  some 
lonely  old  hotel,  and  if  I  never  come  back  nobody  will 
know  the  difference." 

"Of  course  you  shan't  go  by  yourself,  honey,"  Poppa 
protested.  "I  was  only  thinkin'  that  if  I  could  go  home  for 
a  while  I  could  set  my  business  to  rights  and  prob'ly  close 
up  a  big  deal  I  had  on  when  I  got  Hattie's  wire.  If  I  was 
to  put  that  through,  it  would  net  me  a  couple  o'  thousand, 
and  that  would  go  a  long  ways  toward  paying  for  your 
operation,  most  likely;  and  then  I  could  come  on  and  be 
with  you  whilst  you  was  convalescing;  and  then,  if  any- 
thing was  to  happen  to  me,  the  business  would  be  all  right 
and  I'd  leave  you  and  the  children  fixed." 

This  was  the  simple,  humble  statement  of  his  mind  in 
the  matter;  that  solemn  devotion  to  his  work  that  makes 
a  priestcraft  and  an  art  of  business.  Like  all  successful 
creators,  he  consecrated  himself  to  his  work  and  sacrificed 
himself  to  its  completion.  No  poet  or  sculptor  could  have 
a  holier  or  purer  ambit'on  for  perfection  and  a  flawless 
conclusion,  and  there  was  no  more  thought  of  selfishness 
or  greed. 

Momma  understood  and  loved  him,  but  the  disease  in 
her  soul  took  ofi'ense  at  everything;  and,  though  she 
realized  the  unselfishness  of  his  motive,  she  took  a  perverse 
delight  in  distorting  it. 

Then  ensued  one  of  those  duels  in  which  each  took  the 
wrong  side  with  a  kind  of  devoted  Insincerity.  Poppa 
frantically  declared  that  he  would  go  and  nothing  should 
stop  him,  and  she  as  frantically  declared  that  If  he  went 
she  wouldn't. 

Momma  insisted  that  she  hadn't  a  friend  on  earth  or  in 
New  York,  and  she  would  rather  go  back  and  die  in  her 
own  bed  than  die  alone  in  New  York. 


RUPERT   HUGHES  83 


This  reminded  her  distraught  husband  that  she  did 
have  a  friend  in  New  York,  her  old  playmate,  Ella  Jemi- 
son,  who  had  married  Sam  Killip  and  gone  to  New  York 
and  fortune. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  likely  to  ask  rich  folks  like  her  to  take  me 
in!"  Momma  sobbed.  "She  wouldn't  look  at  me.  She's 
forgotten  she  ever  knew  me,  though  we  are  kind  of  sec- 
ond cousins  by  marriage." 

"Well,  her  husband  hasn't  forgot  he  ever  knew  me," 
Poppa  snapped.  "Didn't  I  have  a  letter  from  him  only 
the  other  day,  and  didn't  he  say  his  wife  asked  to  be 
kindly  remembered  to  you?" 

"Sam  Killip  wrote  to  you !"  Momma  cried.  "How'd 
rich  folks  like  him  come  to  write  to  you?" 

Poppa  winced  again  at  being  a  prophet  without  honor 
in  his  own  home.  "Oh,  I  guess  he  ain't  the  only  rich 
folks  in  the  world.  He  said  he  saw  I  was  a  director  in 
the  Third  National  Bank,  and  he  wanted  to  enlarge  his 
capital,  and  he  could  offer  me  a  chance  to  git  in  on  the 
ground  floor  of  a  patent  locomotive  stoker  he  was  push- 
ing.    He  said  he  was  a  little  short  of  cash." 

"Sam  Killip  short  of  cash!" 

"Rich  folks  are  always  short  of  cash,"  Poppa  explained. 
"That's  why  they're  rich.  The  minute  they  git  any  cash 
they  put  it  into  something  and  make  it  work.  I  was 
going  to  tell  Sam  I  couldn't  see  my  way  clear,  but  if  Ella 
will  look  after  you  a  little  PU  help  him  out." 

This  put  a  new  face  on  the  matter.  Instead  of  going  to 
New  York  as  a  decrepit,  friendless  villager,  imploring  the 
pity  of  an  old  acquaintance,  on  whom  her  only  claim  was 
old  acquaintanceship,  she  was  offered  a  chance  to  float  in 
on  her  as  a  bearer  of  rich  gifts.  She  climbed  evenly  and 
thought  of  the  Three  Wise  Men. 

"I'd  go  there  as  a  kind  of  a  Mrs.  Magi  then?" 

"Yes!  Exactly!  And  I  guess  she'd  treat  you  like  a 
grand  duchess,  or  something." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  see  how  I  could,"  Momma  sighed, 
slumping  again,  too  deeply  dejected  to  reach  out  and 
pluck  the  golden  apple. 

But  Poppa  had  more  insight  than  anyone  suspected, 


84  ''MOMMA" 

and  he  had  caught  the  glint  of  interest  in  Momma's  eye. 
It  was  the  first  sparkle  he  had  seen  there  for  weeks,  and, 
though  it  had  been  quenched  at  once,  it  emboldened  him 
to  tyranny.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  left  the  house  with 
a  maddening  mysteriousness. 

He  was  inspired  to  the  amazing  audacity  of  calling  Mr. 
Killip  on  the  long-distance  telephone.  He  went  to  the 
hotel  so  that  Momma  could  not  interrupt  him.  When  he 
had  his  New  York  victim  by  the  ear  he  told  him  the  whole 
story,  and  Killip,  who  was  still  human  though  a  New 
Yorker,  was  as  effusive  in  welcoming  Momma  as  in  ac- 
cepting Poppa's  additional  offer  of  money  enough  to  stoke 
the  stoker  project  to  a  hearty  glow. 

Poppa  went  back  and  told  Momma  what  he  had  done^ 
and  told  her  to  pack  up.     Her  next  obstacle  was: 

"But  I  got  no  clo'es  here.  I'll  have  to  go  home  and 
pack,  and  I  just  ain't  got  the  strength." 

"You  got  no  clothes  at  home  either,"  Hattie  put  in. 
"You  can  go  downtown  with  me  and  get  you  some  decent 
things.  You  can't  go  to  New  York  looking  like  an  old 
farmer." 

This  was  the  wrong  note.  Momma  broke  her  moor- 
ings again. 

"I  told  you  you  was  ashamed  of  me.  I'm  not  fit  to 
be  seen  in  Terra  Hut,  let  alone  in  New  York.  I'm  simply 
not  going  to  New  York  to  make  an  exhabition  of  myself 
and  make  Ellar  Killip  turn  up  her  nose  at  me." 

This  battle  had  lasted  only  a  few  hours  longer  when 
a  telegram  arrived  from  Ella  herself: 

Overjoyed  dearest  Mattie  to  learn  that  yo^l  will  visit 
New  York  though  greatly  distressed  to  learn  of  your  in- 
disposition you  must  come  to  us  of  course  just  let  me 
know  the  train  and  I  will  meet  you  whatever  the  hour.  I 
knozv  Dr.  Courtneidge  very  well  and  he  is  an  old  darling. 
Love  to  you  and  your  husband  from  us  both.        Ella. 

The  gracious  warmth  of  this  brought  tears  to  the  eyes 
of  the  poor  derelict,  but  she  masked  her  sniffle  in  a  sniff. 
"Where'd  she  learn  all  those  swell  words?" 


RUPERT   HUGHES  85 

Hattie  told  her  mother,  as  usual,  that  she  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself,  and  Momma  was. 

She  prolonged  her  resistance  to  the  point  where  Poppa 
grew  desperate  enough  to  groan. 

"Well,  you  do  as  you're  a  mind  to.  Seein'  you're  strong 
enough  to  fight  forever,  you  go  home  and  run  the  business 
and  I'll  go  to  the  hospital  my  own  self." 

"Run  the  business!  That's  all  you  think  of!"  she  re- 
torted with  a  sublime  non  sequitur.  "Put  me  on  the  cattle 
train  and  ship  me  off  to  the  slaughter  house.  Ella  still 
loves  me,  anyway,  even  if  nobody  else  does,  and  she'll 
see  to  it  I  get  decently  buried,  and  that's  all  I  got  a  right 
to  expect." 

Poppa  dashed  out  and  bathed  his  hot  head  in  cold  water 
before  he  went  to  the  ticket  office.  He  nearly  bit  the 
head  off  the  agent,  just  to  show  that  he  had  some  man- 
hood left. 

He  was  never  quite  the  same  man  again  after  he  got 
Momma  on  the  train  at  last.  He  bade  her  a  despondent 
farewell,  feeling  sure  that  he  would  never  see  her  again. 
And,  in  a  sense,  he  never  did.  .  . 

Going  to  the  city  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  especially 
at  such  a  time  in  her  life,  was  an  adventure  and  a  half 
for  Momma. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was  advancing  toward  the 
knives  of  a  surgeon  who  was  her  forlorn  hope,  she  could 
not  but  feel  a  certain  elation.  She  was  experiencing  what 
Victor  Hugo  called  a  "new  shudder." 

She  was  almost  more  afraid  of  Ella  Killip  and  her 
splendor  than  of  the  pancreatic  specialist.  She  was  fairly 
smothered  with  dread  of  facing  the  woman  she  had  not 
seen  since  Ella  was  a  gangling,  noisy,  small-town  tom- 
boy, all  freckles  and  giggles  and  gawkiness. 

She  foresaw  Ella  as  a  sort  of  vast  and  glittering 
Queen  Victoria,  fattened  on  rich  food  and  studded  with 
jewels.  She  saw  herself  as  a  shabby  farm  wife  whom 
Ella  would  probably  give  one  glance  and  flee  from  with 
disdain. 

When  she  reached  New  York  at  last,  her  first  struggle 


86  "MOMMA" 

was  with  a  red-capped  ruffian  who  tried  to  steal  her  valise. 
Her  next  struggle  was  with  her  terror  of  the  meeting  with 
Ella.  If  she  had  known  how  to  get  a  train  back  to  Carth- 
age, she  would  have  taken  it.  But  the  crowd  hustled  her 
up  the  platform  and  she  lugged  a  soul  heavier  than  her 
rusty  hand  bag. 

No  one  had  met  her  at  the  train,  and  she  was  morbid 
enough  to  hope  that  Ella  had  missed  her.  But  inside  the 
station  she  found  a  crowd  held  back  by  a  rope,  and  paused 
to  stare  at  the  staring  eyes. 

She  saw  no  one  that  suggested  the  Ella  she  had  planned, 
but  a  tall  slim  creature,  dressed  like  an  actress,  in  glisten- 
ing silk,  came  forward  hesitantly.  She  looked  young,  and 
yet  she  didn't.  Her  hair  was  hidden  by  a  hat  whose  brim 
seemed  to  have  been  flourished  by  the  impatient,  whim- 
sical stroke  of  a  painter's  brush. 

From  this  dressmaker's  model  came  a  voice  that  startled 
the  valise  from  Momma's  hand,  for  the  voice  came  out  of 
childhood,  and  it  was  the  voice  of  Ella.  It  sang  a  new 
tune,  but  it  was  the  old  voice.  It  said  timidly,  tentatively: 
"Mattie?     Is  it  you?" 

Momma's  soft  old  knees  caved  in,  and  she  sat  on  the 
valise  as  she  whimpered:  "This  is  me,  but  you're  never 
Ellar!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am,  my  dear,"  said  Ella  with  a  good  laugh 
as  she  hoisted  Momma  to  her  feet.  "I'm  the  same  old 
sixpence." 

"You  lodk  more  like  your  own  daughter,  if  you  have 


one." 


"Oh,  I  have  one — three,  in  fact.  But — come  along,  you 
old  dear." 

She  nodded  to  a  red  cap,  who  took  the  valise  and 
followed  her  as  she  led  Momma  through  the  station. 
Momma's  dazed  eyes  supposed  they  were  taking  a  short 
cut  through  a  cathedral. 

The  Killip  limousine  was  marvelous,  but  she  expected 
marvels.  She  was  a  trifle  disappointed  when  she  reached 
Ella's  home.  She  had  expected  to  drive  through  a  royal 
park  to  a  palace.  But  she  was  put  down  at  a  house  built 
jam  in  among  a  lot  of  other  houses. 


RUPERT   HUGHES  87 

It  was  not  half  the  size  of  Momma's  house  and  had 
no  yard  at  all  except  a  small  patch  at  the  back. 

In  place  of  a  double  row  of  stiff-necked  butlers  up  a 
grand  staircase,  there  was  one  very  pleasant  young  man 
at  the  door  and  an  awfully  nice  hired  girl  in  cap  and 
apron.  Very  friendly  she  was  too,  and  helped  Momma 
in  the  most  folksy  way  up  to  her  room. 

Ella  came  along,  and  when  the  maid  was  sent  for  tea 
she  petted  Momma  and  stuffed  a  pillow  in  her  back  and 
then  drew  a  chair  close  up  and  said:  ^'Now,  Alattie  dear, 
tell  me  all  about  it.  What  on  earth  is  the  trouble,  you 
poor  soul.'^" 

But  Momma  was  so  embarrassed  by  the  numberless 
disparities  between  herself  and  this  strange  creature  who 
had  started  life  with  even  less  advantage  that  she  could 
not  be  at  ease. 

She  was  dazed  by  the  brilliance  of  Ella,  by  her  blithe 
yet  haughty  carriage,  her  young  skin,  slim  deft  hands, 
youthful  alertness,  her  fashionable  voice,  her  fashionable 
politeness. 

She  saw  that  Ella's  hair  was  white,  now  that  her  hat 
was  off;  but  her  hair  was  ironed  and  fluted  and  polished 
and  dressed  as  for  a  fancy  dress  ball. 

Momma  summed  up  her  bewildered  homage,  if  It  was 
homage,  in  one  helpless  query: 

"What  makes  you  powder  your  hair,  Ella?" 

Ella  laughed  aloud.  A  little  of  the  old  boisterousness 
broke  through  the  years  of  control. 

"As  my  boys  would  say:  'Whaddaya  mean,  "powder 
my  hair"?'  That's  my  own  poor  old  gray  wool,  damn 
it!" 

Ella's  swear  word  even  had  a  fashionable  fillip! 
Momma  had  never  sworn  in  her  life,  or,  that  is,  hardly 
ever;  certainly  not  with  a  smile.  When  she  had  needed 
profane  words,  she  had  used  stupid  old-womanish  ex- 
pletives. 

But  Ella's  casual  objurgation  broke  the  ice  magically. 
There  is  nothing  that  clears  the  air  of  formality  like  a 
little  damn. 


88  "MOMMA" 

Momma  was  so  numb  that  it  merely  startled  her  from 
her  torpor.  She  laughed  the  first  laugh  that  had  been 
shaken  out  of  her  dust  bin  of  a  soul  for  six  weeks. 

After  that  the  two  old  women  were  themselves  again, 
two  girls  who  had  parted  and  gone  round  the  world  two 
opposite  ways  and  come  together  at  last  to  exchange  ex- 
periences. Their  costumes  and  their  dialects  had  changed 
with  their  travel,  but  their  hearts  were  as  of  old. 

Momma  had  to  hear  first  of  Ella's  amazing  experiences. 
This  desire  itself  was  a  miracle  of  change;  she  had  already 
forgotten  herself  for  a  while. 

Ella's  husband  came  home  before  Ella  had  finished  her 
Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment  and  he  was  pleasantly 
surprised  and  surprising.  He  had  expected  Mattie  to  be 
more  ill  than  she  was  and  he  had  not  expected  her  to  look 
at  all  like  his  own  wife.  He  knew  only  too  well  how 
expensive  Ella's  looks  were  and  how  difi"erent  a  life  she 
led  from  the  women  of  the  old  home  town. 

The  dinner  was  simple  but  "awful  tasty,"  as  Mattie 
proclaimed.  She  was  astounded  to  find  herself  eating 
with  relish.  But  the  service  was  irresistible.  The  ami- 
able gentleman  who  handed  the  plates  around  and  took 
them  away  was  so  solicitous  about  suggesting  to  her  the 
best  morsels  that  she  could  not  insult  him  by  refusing 
anything  or  break  his  heart  by  leaving  an  untouched 
plate  for  him  to  carry  away. 

Sam  Killip  was  eager  to  know  about  all  the  friends  and 
enemies  of  his  youth  and  remembered  so  well  the  people 
and  the  nooks  and  the  scraps  of  those  good  old  days  that 
the  dinner  went  by  like  a  wedding  feast. 

Fortunately  the  Killip  children  were  away  at  schools 
and  house  parties  and  Momma  was  not  subjected  to  the 
inspection  of  a  generation  that  found  even  Ella  Killip  old- 
fashioned  and  conservative.  When  Ella  said  she  had 
given  up  trying  to  keep  up  with  the  youngsters.  Momma 
laughed  her  to  scorn  with  a  quaint  phrase:  "Oh,  yes,  to 
hear  you  tell  it!" 

After  dinner  Sam  had  a  meeting  of  some  charitable 
board,  and  Ella  and  Mattie  settled  down  for  a  confab. 
Ella  neglected  to  mention  that  she  had  sent  her  opera  box 


RUPERT   HUGHES  89 

to  friends  of  hers,  and  she  made  no  allusion  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  the  first  performance  of  a  new  role  for  Caruso, 
and  she  would  have  given  an  eyetooth  to  hear  him. 

She  spread  Momma  out  on  what  she  called  a  chaise 
longue.  Momma  said  it  was  the  only  comfortable  sofa 
she'd  ever  laid  on  and  she  was  going  to  have  one  like 
it  if  it  busted  Poppa.  Momma  was  already  planning  for 
the  future!      And  thinking  of  it  in  terms  of  comfort! 

She  was  reluctant  to  discuss  her  famous  illness,  but  Ella 
insisted  on  knowing  the  worst. 

"Well,  it  simply  baffled  all  the  doctors,"  Momma  said 
in  a  tone  not  altogether  boastless.  "I  don't  know  how  to 
describe  it.  It's  just  a  kind  of  gener'l  gone-ness.  I  got 
no  heart  for  anything — no  appatite  for  my  vittles,  no 
int'rest  in  the  house  or  church  work  or  the  heathen  or  the 
fambly.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  nights  and  I  don't 
want  to  get  up  mornings.  Always  been  a  fiend  on  house- 
keepin',  but  I  don't  much  care  now  whether  things  arc 
in  their  place  or  not.  Dust  don't  worry  me  like  it  used 
to.  Fm  all  dusty  myself.  No  special  aches  or  pains, 
but  I  just  don't  feel  good  anywheres. 

"Want  to  cry  all  the  time  and  I  don't  know  why.  Hate 
to  go  outdoors  and  hate  to  stay  in.  Poppa  drives  me 
nearly  crazy  with  everything  he  does  and  says,  but  I 
drive  myself  crazier  still.  I  ain't  friends  with  myself  or 
anybody.  Want  to  die  and  can't  bear  the  thought  of  that 
either. 

"It's  just  a  kind  of  all  wrongness  everywhere,  if  you  can 
make  anything  out  of  that." 

To  her  amazement,  Ella  said:  "I  know  just  how  you 
feel  and  you've  come  to  the  right  place  to  be  cured." 

It  was  not  altogether  pleasant  to  have  Ella  claim  a  share 
in  Momma's  wonderful  disease  and  to  speak  so  off-hand- 
edly  of  its  cure.  But  instead  of  rebuking  Ella  for  presum- 
ing and  for  minimizing  the  crisis.  Momma  felt  relieved 
and  before  long  she  was  yawning  nobly  and  confessing 
that  she  could  not  keep  her  eyes  open.  Ella  went  to  her 
room  with  her  and  saw  her  bestowed,  then  kissed  her 
good  night  and  left  her.     Momma  noted  that  her  valise 


90  "MOMMA" 

had  been  unpacked,  her  bed  opened,  her  nightgown  and 
slippers  laid  out,  a  water  bottle  set  by  the  reading  lamp 
on  a  little  table  by  the  bedhead,  and  a  dozen  little  thought- 
fulnesses  executed  in  her  behalf. 

When  she  was  in  her  old  nightgown,  which  was  modeled 
on  the  potato-bag  pattern,  and  had  said  her  prayers,  she 
crept  into  the  disgracefully  fine  linen  sheets  and  slept  in 
luxurious  oblivion  for  nine  good  hours. 

She  did  not  know  that  Ella  had  sneaked  into  her  own 
room,  dressed  swiftly,  and  stolen  out  to  the  opera,  where 
she  stood  up,  and  that  she  went  to  a  supper  and  there 
danced  a  while  before  she  sneaked  home. 

Momma  had  her  breakfast  in  bed  at  Ella's  previous 
order  and  wandered  about  the  house  for  hours  before  Ella 
had  rung  for  her  breakfast  and  sent  for  Momma. 

Ella  was  a  sight.  She  looked  like  one  of  those  immor'l 
French  kings'  favorites.  She  had  on  a  lace  boudoir  cap 
and  a  silk  nightgown,  very  deckolett,  and  a  "breakfast 
jacket"  (of  all  things!)  of  satin  and  lace. 

She  did  look  handsome.  Momma  had  always  hated  to 
have  even  Poppa  see  her  before  breakfast.  She  began  to 
be  a  little  eager  for  her  cure. 

"When  do  I  go  to  see  this  Dr.  Courtneidge?" 

Ella  hesitated  a  moment,  then  spoke  with  a  certain 
sternness: 

"There  are  two  or  three  things  that  have  to  be  done 
first,  Mattie  dear.  I'm  always  a  beast  up  till  noon,  so  you 
mustn't  be  surprised  if  I'm  brutally  frank  now.  Dr. 
Courtneidge  is  a  very  fussy  and  snappy  old  gentleman. 
He  has  only  swells  for  patients  and  he's  very  particular." 

"Don't  he  treat  poor  folks  at  tall?"     Momma  gasped. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  has  free  clinics  and  hospitals  and  all  that 
and  does  half  his  work  for  nothing.  That's  why  he's  so 
particular  with  his  pay  patients.  You've  got  to  go  through 
a  course  of  sprouts  and  buy  some  things  or  you'll  never  get 
near  him. 

"His  reception  room  is  full  of  people,  and  you'd  feel 
terribly  embarrassed  to  wait  there  till  he  gets  round.  So 
you  really  must  have  some  of  this  year's  clothes  and  a 
1920   hat.     And    your   hair — you    mustn't   be   offended. 


RUPERT   HUGHES  91 

Mattie,  dear,  but  really  your  hair  and  your  skin!  He'd 
give  you  one  glance  and  send  you  away  without  an  exami- 
nation even.     You  see,  I  know  him, 

"And  then  the  examination,  Mattie  dear — well,  you 
know  what  that's  like.  And  in  the  hospital — well !  I  saw 
the  nightgown  laid  out  on  your  pillow  and  that  sort  of 
thing  would  simply  frighten  the  doctor  to  death.  He 
really  couldn't  operate." 

"I'm  not  looking  to  marry  the  old  fool,"  Momma 
mumbled.     "I  got  one  husband  a'ready." 

"I  know,  my  dear  Mattie,  but  your  one  husband  put 
you  in  my  charge  and  I'm  going  to  see  you  through.  My 
masseuse  is  coming  to  my  house  this  morning.  She's 
downstairs  now,  I  imagine,  and  I'm  going  to  have  her 
begin  on  you.  When  she's  finished,  my  hairdresser, 
Frangois,  will  get  to  work  on  that  dear  old  poll  of  yours 
and  take  off  about  forty  years  of  age.  Then  we'll  have 
lunch  and  go  shopping." 

Momma  was  choked  with  wrath,  but  Ella  would  neither 
fight  nor  plead.  She  just  bullied  her  with  laughter,  and 
Momma,  feeling  like  a  convict  unjustly  imprisoned,  set 
her  jaws  and  resolved  to  go  through  with  the  sentence. 
She  revolted,  however,  at  the  insolence  of  the  masseuse — 
and  her  exclamations  of  horror  at  the  neglect  of  a  "skin 
that  had  never  really  been  cleaned." 

But  the  wretch  silenced  Momma's  indignation  with 
the  indignity  of  smeared  cold  cream,  and  smothered  her 
with  hot  towels  and  cold  towels,  and  with  lotions  of  every 
odor  and   smart. 

Momma  would  not  speak  to  her  as  she  left,  but  when 
she  scowled  at  the  mirror,  she  gazed  at  the  new  face 
aghast  it  flung  back  at  her.  The  dull  parchment  of  her 
skin  had  become  a  living  integument  with  a  kind  of  dreamy 
radiance  alive  in  it. 

Momma  felt  bewitched.  She  would  have  sworn  that 
the  image  in  the  looking-glass  smiled  first  at  her  and 
nodded,  compelling  her  to  smile  back  and  nod  in  return. 
She  hung  there  fascinated,  understanding  a  little  of  what 
Narcissus  felt  when  he  looked  first  in  the  pool. 


92  "MOMMA" 

Then  a  quiet  Frenchman  was  shown  in.  He  overawed 
Momma  by  his  dignity  and  his  dexterity.  She  dared  not 
slap  his  face  when  he  spoke  of  her  hair  as  a  crime.  He 
called  it  a  "cream,"  but  she  understood  his  shoulders. 

And  then  he  attacked  her  poor  head  with  ferocious 
familiarity.  If  Poppa  had  ever  caught  him,  and  her, 
he'd  certainly  have  shot  them  both. 

Momma  was  in  for  it,  however,  and  she  actually  per- 
mitted this  strange  man,  this  appalling  foreigner,  to  take 
down  her  hair,  drench  it,  soap  it,  souse  her  head  in  water, 
pour  curious  smelly  things  over  her  scalp,  and  rinse 
them  out,  massage  her  occiput,  comb  and  pull  and  torture 
and  iron  her  hair  and  dress  it  on  top  of  her  astounded 
skull  in  what  he  called  a  "French  twist."  She  spent  a 
whole  hour  of  "feeling  like  a  shirt  in  a  steam  laundry," 
as  she  afterward  expressed  it.  Then  he  brandished  before 
her  a  mirror  and  uttered  a  triumphant  cry  of  something 
that  sounded  like: 

"Ah,  my  damn,  walla,  walla!" 

Momma  blushed  vermilion  and  felt  as  immoral  as 
she  looked.  Yet  not  at  all  remorseful,  somehow.  For- 
tunately Franswa  dashed  out  to  prepare  the  hair  of  Ella, 
leaving  Momma  to  ponder  her  new  face  and  her  new  hair 
with  a  new  soul. 

She  felt  that,  in  Hattie's  formula,  she  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself,  but,  to  save  her  immortal  being,  she 
could  not. 

Only  one  thing  she  was  sure  of,  and  that  was  that  that 
head  and  that  hair  did  not  belong  on  top  of  that  old  dress 
of  hers.  Her  one  "best  dress"  was  the  one  worst  dress 
she  had  ever  seen. 

When  at  length  she  saw  Ella,  Ella  screamed  with  de- 
light at  the  transformation  and  said  something  that 
rimed: 

Grow  old  along  with  me, 
The  best  is  yet  to  be. 

The  afternoon  was  spent  in  shopping  for  what  Ella 
called  "landjerree." 


RUPERT   HUGHES  93 

Until  she  had  the  proper  underpinnings,  Ella  simply 
refused  to  buy  Mattie  the  new  dress  and  hat  she  was 
already  clamoring  for. 

The  amount  of  Poppa's  money  that  Ella  spent  on  silken 
shamelessness  dazed  Momma,  but  Ella  would  not  be 
checked,  and  Momma  was  too  childishly  interested  in 
the  new  doll  rags  to  make  more  than  a  show  of  resistance. 

Ella  said:  "If  your  husband  has  money  enough  to  waste 
ten  thousand  dollars  on  my  husband's  foolish  investments, 
he  has  money  enough  to  buy  you  some  decent  under- 
clothes." 

"Did  you  say  'decent'?"  was  Momma's  feeble  dis- 
claimer, but  she  barely  muttered  it. 

That  night,  on  a  plea  of  going  to  bed  early,  Momma 
locked  herself  in  her  room  and  tried  on  the  new  things. 
She  nearly  died  of  palpitation  of  the  heart  when  she  stood 
up  in  silk  stockings,  satin  mules,  and  in  a  new  streamline 
corset  that  gave  her  a  figure!  A  heroic  figure  indeed,  but 
a  shape,  a  contour,  that  was  not  altogether  an  insult  to 
the  Creator  who  fashioned  it.  Momma  had  to  give  it  a 
religious  significance  to  live  through  it. 

And  why  not.^  What  instinct  is  more  deeply  Implanted 
in  womanhood  than  the  immemorial  insatiable  lust  for 
pretty  things.''  It  has  resisted  the  immemorial  insatiable 
lust  of  preachers  and  satirists  for  insulting  it,  of  econo- 
mists and  hardworking  men  for  denouncing  it.  It  has 
been  called  every  contemptuous  and  cruel  name  in  every 
language.  Laws  have  been  made  against  it  innumerably, 
in  vain.  And  it  has  flourished  as  unconquerably  as  violets 
in  moss,  as  perfume  in  hyacinths,  as  bright  plumage  in 
birds,  and  ornate  sunsets  in  western  skies. 
_  The  weavers  of  silk  and  the  needlers  of  laces,  the  de- 
signers of  gowns  and  of  hats  have  kept  up  their  beautiful 
careers  despite  the  thunders  of  self-styled  virtue  and  the 
slanders  of  all  times. 

Poets  and  prosers  and  painters  who  have  turned  less 
beautiful  lines  and  have  married  less  beautiful  colors, 
and  the  critics  who  have  celebrated  their  achievements, 
have  looked  down  with  disdain  on  those  who  have  devoted 


94  "MOMMA" 

their  inspirations  and  their  toil  to  the  creation  of  felicitous 
decorations  for  the  living  body. 

But  the  women  have  known  better.  They  never  have 
despised  the  artists  who  improved  them  and  enhanced 
them;  and  by  hook  or  by  crook  they  have  kept  those 
artists   alive   and  blessed  them  with   fame. 

And  again  why  not.^  The  pietists  and  the  Puritans  who 
cannot  forgive  women  for  trying  to  be  beautiful,  do  they 
not  belie  their  own  gods  in  their  own  barbaric  praise  of 
ugliness? 

"O  Justice,  what  crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name!" 
And,  O  Beauty,  what  crimes  in  thine!  Yet  beauty  shall 
not  die  nor  the  love  of  ornament,  and  those  who  hate 
them  cannot  prove  their  right  to  cast  a  stone.  Frightful 
extravagances  and  cruelties  are  the  result  of  the  hunger 
for  beauty  and  the  feeding  of  that  appetite,  but  this  is 
true  of  every  other  religion  and  law  and  ideal. 

If  everybody  who  dressed  plainly  and  lived  without 
luxury,  gave  all  he  saved  or  she  did  not  spend  to  the  poor, 
their  miserliness  might  be  justified,  but  everybody  knows 
that  this  is  not  so. 

Beauty  is  generous.  She  who  is  pleased  with  herself  is 
already  hospitable,  and  until  the  millennium  is  here  those 
who  have  not  the  energy  or  the  wile  to  get  fine  clothes 
and  wear  them  well  may  content  themselves  as  best  they 
can  by  watching  the  well-bedecked  go  by. 

And  who  is  he  so  mean  of  soul  that  he  would  decree 
the  extinction  of  the  custom  women  have  of  making  them- 
selves as  pleasing  to  the  eye  as  possible?  And  what 
benefits  would  the  vandal  confer  on  bedulled  mankind? 

Momma  at  least  at  last  was  not  of  that  humor.  She 
had  become  a  girl  again  at  heart.  She  could  never  be 
again  the  gracile  nymph  who  had  turned  the  heads  of 
Carthage  swains  with  her  flesh  of  apple-blossom  hue, 
her  fleecy  hair  in  its  ribbons,  and  her  gay  body  in  its 
winsome  fabrics. 

But  she  could  be  a  splendid  white-haired  matron;  and 
that  age  has  a  nobler  beauty  and  a  grander  charm  than 
even  youth  can  give,  youth  so  common  and  so  helpless 
in  its  grace. 


RUPERT   HUGHES  95 

When  Momma  walked  by  chance  In  front  of  the  long 
cheval  glass,  she  fell  back  with  a  sob  of  fear  and  shame. 
But  she  approached  again  and  studied  herself.  She 
stood  up  straight,  lifting  her  head  proudly  on  her  throat, 
her  torso  on  her  hips;  holding  herself  stalwart  as  an 
empress. 

And  she  thanked  God  for  what  He  had  given  her,  and 
promised  Him  she  would  take  better  care  of  the  chalice 
of  her  soul.  And  a  happiness  possessed  her  like  a  bene- 
diction. 

The  next  day  she  went  forth  to  buy  dresses,  not  mere 
tents  to  hide  her  shapeless  body  under,  colored  bags  to 
cover  her  lumps  and  bulges  from  the  casual  and  unlinger- 
ing  eye,  but  exquisite  masterpieces  from  skilled  looms, 
piously  accepting  the  human  form  and  developing  its 
graces. 

Ella  was  not  fool  enough  to  put  kittenish  anachronisms 
of  dress  on  Momma.  She  made  her  look  herself  at  her 
supreme. 

And  the  slithy  mannequins  who  stood  about  raved  over 
the  miracle  that  had  been  accomplished  in  turning  the 
dowdy  peasant  that  entered  the  shop  into  a  high-bred 
dowager  who  smiled  upon  an  approving  mirror. 

Momma's  only  grief  was  that  she  could  not  wear  any 
of  the  gowns  out  on  the  street  at  once.  She  had  a  frantic 
desire  to  prance  up  Fifth  Avenue  without  delay.  But 
there  were  alterations  to  make,  and  she  must  wait. 

And  so  must  Dr.  Courtneidge. 

She  took  the  delay  as  her  punishment  for  having  put 
off  so  long  the  day  of  her  at-one-mcnt  with  her  better  self. 

The  afternoon  was  spent  among  the  milliners.  Glis- 
tening countesses  in  black  satin  came  and  went  with  hats 
like  coronets.  They  set  them  daintily  on  Momma's  tur- 
reted  hair  and  lifted  them  away  again.  Momma  sat  up 
so  straight  that  she  felt  taller  sitting  down  than  she  had 
seemed  hitherto  reaching  for  a  pantry  shelf. 

It  was  unbelievable  how  much  it  changed  her  face  to 
change  her  hat.  She  cowered  in  horror  from  beneath 
some  of  the  brims,  but  others  so  caught  her  up  into  the 


96  "MOMMA" 

clouds  that  they  amounted  to  translation — apotheosis 
almost. 

In  spite  of  Ella's  cries  of  protest,  she  bought  five  of  the 
costliest  and  wore  one  of  them  away. 

She  went  to  bed  prostrated.  But  it  was  the  prostra- 
tion of  a  girl  come  home  from  a  great  ball,  worn  out  with 
rapture  and  pursued  by  remembered  music. 

Poppa  had  not  heard  a  word  of  Momma  since  the  tele- 
gram she  sent  him  saying  that  she  had  arrived  and  been 
met  and  was  awful  tired  and  discouraged. 

When  no  letters  came  he  was  sure  that  she  was  up  to 
her  old  trick  of  concealing  the  worst  from  him  as  long  as 
possible.  He  was  sure  that  she  was  in  the  hospital, 
delirious  with  pain  and  on  her  way  to  the  grave.  His 
heart  went  mad  with  visions  of  her  loss  and  of  the  dismal 
life  without  her. 

On  another  of  his  impulses  he  took  a  train  for  New 
York,  sending  a  brief  telegram  to  Ella. 

He  got  off  the  train  in  much  the  desolate  mood  that 
had  dejected  Momma  when  she  arrived.  He  also  re- 
sisted the  redcap  and  trudged  dolefully  to  the  line  where 
people  waited  behind  the  rope.  And  up  to  him  also  came 
a  gorgeous  creature  whom  he  did  not  recognize  until  he 
heard  the  ancient  voice. 

"Poppa,  don't  you  know  me?" 

The  voice  was  Momma's,  but  since  when  was  she  a 
tsarina  off  the  throne?  He,  too,  dropped  his  handbag 
and  collapsed.  And  she  lifted  him  and  murmured  as 
she  kissed  him: 

"Don't  you  like  me?" 

"I  don't  know  you,"  he  faltered. 

But  he  kissed  her  suave  and  fragrant  cheek  again  and 
looked  into  the  gleaming  eyes  of  the  bride  he  remem- 
bered out  of  the  long  ago. 

Then  he  began  to  laugh  in  great  gulps  of  blissful 
anguish,  like  a  boy  who  has  found  on  the  Christmas  tree 
a  richer  gift  than  he  had  ever  dreamed  of,  or  dared  to  ask. 

Momma  cried  too.  But  such  a  different  wail  from  the 
wails   he   had  heard   from   her   of  late! 


RUPERT   HUGHES  97 

Finally  Poppa  thought  that  he  must  give  credit  for  the 
redemption  where  it  was  due. 

"That  Dr.  Courtneidge  is  certainly  a  wonder.  What 
on  earth  did  he  do  to  you?" 

"I  haven't  seen  him  yet,"  said  Momma.  "And  I'm 
not  goin'  to.  I've  taken  what  Ella  calls  the  'hat  cure' 
and  all  the  other  clothes  cures.  And  they  haven't  cost 
much  more  than  old  Courtneidge  would  have  charged." 

Poppa  felt  very  uneasy  walking  along  with  Momma  in 
all  her  glittering  glory.  He  had  always  loved  her.  Now 
he  felt  proud  of  her  with  the  goodly  pride  of  a  man  who 
has  the  luck  to  get  a  beautiful  wife  and  the  brains  to  keep 
her  beautiful. 

The  only  fly  in  the  great  bowl  of  ointment  was  himself, 
his  shabby  self.     He  confessed  as  much. 

"I'm  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  you,  Momma." 

"You  won't  be  after  I  get  through  taking  you  to  the 
tailor's  and  the  other  places  I'm  goin'  to  take  you  to. 
This  is  our  second  honeymoon,  Poppa.  We  didn't  have 
any  trousseau  at  tall  before,  but  we're  going  to  make 
up  for  it  now.  I  think  I'll  telegraph  for  Hattie  and  give 
her  a  look,  just  so's  to  hear  her  say:  'Why,  Momma, 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!'" 

"I  guess  you'd  oughta,  at  that,"  Poppa  guffawed. 

And  as  she  swept  into  Ella's  limousine  like  a  Roman 
empress  entering  a  chariot.  Momma  tittered: 

"I  am!    I'm  so  ashamed  of  myself,  I'm  proud  of  it!" 


Cosmopolitan  Magazine 


BACK  PAY 

BY 

FANNIE  HURST 


BACK  PAY ' 
By  FANNIE  HURST 

I  SET  out  to  write  a  love-story,  and  for  the  purpose 
sharpened  a  bright-pink  pencil  with  a  glass  ruby 
frivolously  at  the  eraser  end. 

Something  sweet.  Something  dainty.  A  candied  rose- 
leaf  after  all  is  the  bitter  war-lozenges.  A  miss.  A  kiss. 
A  golf-stick.  A  motor-car.  Or,  if  need  be,  a  bit  of  khaki, 
but  without  one  single  spot  of  blood  or  mud,  and  nicely 
pressed  as  to  those  fetching  peg-top  trouser  effects  where 
they  wing  out  just  below  the  skirt-coat.  The  oldest 
story  in  the  world  told  newly.  No  wear  out  to  it.  Edi- 
tors know.  It's  as  staple  as  eggs  or  printed  lawn  or 
ipecac.  The  good  old-fashioned  love  story  with  the 
above-mentioned  miss,  kiss  and,  if  need  be  for  the  sake 
of  timeliness,  the  bit  of  khaki,  pressed. 

Just  my  luck  that,  with  one  of  these  most  salable  tales 
in  the  world  at  the  tip  of  my  pink  pencil,  Hester  Bevins 
should  come  pounding  and  clamoring  at  the  door  of  my 
mental  reservation,  quite  drowning  out  the  rather  high, 
the  lipsy,  and,  if  I  do  say  it  myself,  distinctly  musical 
patter  of  Arline.  That  was  to  have  been  her  name. 
Arline  Kildane.  Sweet,  don't  you  think,  and  with  just 
a  bit  of  wild  Irish  rose  in  it? 

But  Hester  Bevins  would  not  let  herself  be  gainsaid, 
sobbing  a  little,  elbowing  her  way  through  the  group  of 
mental  unborns,  and  leaving  me  to  blow  my  pitch-pipe 
for  a  minor  key. 

Not  that  Hester's  isn't  one  of  the  oldest  stories  in  the 
world,  too.     No  matter  how  newly  told,  she  is  as  old  as 

'Copyright,   1919,  by    The  Cosmopolitan  Magazine. 


102  BACK  PAY 

sin,  and  sin  is  but  a  few  weeks  younger  than  love — and 
how  often  the  two  are  interchangeable! 

There  is  another  Hester  in  fiction  who  wore  a  literal 
scarlet  letter,  but  she  is  sprung  from  the  brain  of  genius, 
from  whence  all  immortal  brain-children  are  born.  My 
poor  Hester  is  of  far  less  fertile  gray  matter,  but  here 
she  is  as  she  is. 

If  it  be  a  fact  that  the  true  lady  is,  in  theory,  either  a 
virgin  or  a  lawful  wife,  then  Hester  Bevins  stands  im- 
mediately convicted  on  two  charges. 

She  was  neither.  The  most  that  can  be  said  for  her 
is  that  she  was  honestly  what  she  was. 

"If  the  wages  of  sin  is  death,"  she  said  to  a  road-house 
party  of  roysterers  one  dawn,  "then  I've  quite  a  bit  of 
back  pay  coming  to  me."  And  joined  in  the  shout  that 
rose  off  the  table. 

I  can  sketch  her  in  for  you  rather  simply  because  of 
the  hackneyed  lines  of  her  very,  very  old  story.  Whose 
pasts  so  quickly  mold  and  disintegrate  as  those  of  women 
of  Hester's  stripe?  Their  yesterdays  are  entirely  soluble 
in  the  easy  waters  of  their  to-days. 

For  the  first  seventeen  years  of  her  life,  she  lived  in 
what  we  might  call  Any  American  Town  of,  say,  fifteen 
or  twenty  thousand  inhabitants.  Her  particular  one  was 
in  Ohio.  Demopolis,  I  think.  One  of  those  change- 
engine-and-take-on-water  stops  with  a  stucco  art- 
nouveau  station,  a  roof  drooping  all  round  it,  as  if  it 
needed  to  be  shaved  off  like  edges  of  a  pie,  and  the  name 
of  the  town  writ  in  conch  shells  on  a  green  slant  of 
terrace.  You  know — the  kind  that  first  establishes  a 
ten-o'clock  curfew  for  its  young,  its  dance-halls,  and 
motion-picture  theaters,  and  then  sends  in  a  hurry  call 
for  a  social-service  expert  from  one  of  the  large  Eastern 
cities  to  come  and  diagnose  its  malignant  vice  under- 
growth. 

Hester  Bevins,  of  a  mother  who  died  bearing  her  and 
one  of  those  disappearing  fathers  who  can  speed  away 
after  the  accident  without  even  stopping  to  pick  up 
the  child  or  leave  a  license-number,  was  reared — no; 
grew  up,  is  better — in  the  home  of  an  aunt.     A  blond 


FANNIE    HURST  103 

aunt  with  many  gold  teeth  and  many  pnik  and  blue 
wrappers. 

Whatever  Hester  knew  of  the  kind  of  home  that  fos- 
tered her,  it  left  apparently  no  welt  across  her  sensibilities. 
It  was  a  rather  poor  house,  an  unpainted  frame  in  a  poor 
street,  but  there  was  never  a  lack  of  gaiety  or,  for  that 
matter,  any  pinching  lack  of  funds.  It  was  an  actual 
fact  that,  at  thirteen,  cotton  or  lisle  stockings  brought 
out  a  little  irritated  rash  on  Hester's  slim  young  legs,  and 
she  wore  silk.  Abominations,  It  is  true,  at  three  pair 
for  a  dollar,  that  sprung  runs  and  would  not  hold  a  darn, 
but,  just  the  same,  they  were  silk.  There  was  an  air  of 
easy  camaraderie  and  easy  money  about  that  house.  It 
was  not  unusual  for  her  to  come  home  from  school  at 
high  noon  and  find  a  front-room  group  of  one,  two, 
three,  or  four  guests,  almost  invariably  men.  Frequently 
these  guests  handed  her  out  as  much  as  half  a  dollar  for 
candy-money,  and  not  another  child  in  school  reckoned 
in  more  than  pennies. 

Once,  a  guest,  for  reasons  of  odd  change,  I  suppose, 
handed  her  out  thirteen  cents.  Outraged  perhaps  at  the 
meanness  of  the  sum,  and  with  an  early  and  deep-dyed 
superstition  of  thirteen,  she  dashed  the  coins  out  of  his 
hand  and  to  the  four  corners  of  the  room,  escaping  in 
the  guffaw  of  laughter  that  went  up. 

Often  her  childish  sleep  in  a  small  top  room  with  slant- 
ing sides  would  be  broken  upon  by  loud  ribaldry  that 
lasted  into  dawn,  but  never  by  word,  and  certainly  not  by 
deed,  was  she  to  know  from  her  aunt  any  of  its  sordid 
significance. 

Literally,  Hester  Bevins  was  left  to  feather  her  own 
nest.  There  were  no  demands  made  upon  her.  Once, 
in  the  little  atrocious  front  parlor  of  horsehair  and 
chromo,  one  of  the  guests,  the  town  baggage-master, 
to  be  exact,  made  to  embrace  her,  receiving  from  the 
left  rear  a  sounding  smack  across  cheek  and  ear  from  the 
aunt. 

"Cut  that!  Hester,  go  out  and  play!  Whatever  she's 
got  to  learn  from  life,  she  can't  say  she  learned  it  in  my 
house." 


104  BACK   PAY 

There  were  even  two  years  of  high  school,  and  at  six- 
teen, when  she  went,  at  her  own  volition,  to  clerk  in 
Finley's  two  story  department  store  on  High  Street,  she 
was  still  innocent,  although  she  and  Gerald  Fishback 
were  openly  sweethearts. 

Gerald  was  a  Thor.  Of  course,  you  are  not  to  take 
that  literally;  but  if  ever  there  was  a  carnification  of  the 
great  god  himself,  then  Gerald  was  in  his  image.  A  wide 
streak  of  the  Scandinavian  ran  through  his  make-up, 
although  he  had  been  born  in  Middletown,  and  from 
there  had  come  recently  to  the  Finley  Dry  Goods  Com- 
pany as  an  accountant. 

He  was  so  the  viking  in  his  bigness  that  once,  on  a 
picnic,  he  had  carried  two  girls,  screaming  their  fun, 
across  twenty  feet  of  stream.     Hester  was  one  of  them. 

It  was  at  this  picnic,  the  Finley  annual,  that  he  asked 
Hester,  then  seventeen,  to  marry  him.  She  was  darkly, 
wildly  pretty,  as  a  rambler  rose  tugging  at  its  stem  is 
restlessly  pretty,  as  a  pointed  little  gazelle  smelling  up 
at  the  moon  is  whimsically  pretty,  as  a  runaway  stream 
from  off  the  flank  of  a  river  is  naughtily  pretty,  and  she 
wore  a  crisp  percale  shirt-waist  with  a  saucy  bow  at  the 
collar,  fifty-cent  silk  stockings,  and  already  she  had 
almond  incarnadine  nails  with  points  to  them. 

They  were  in  the  very  heart  of  Wallach's  Grove,  under 
a  natural  cathedral  of  trees,  the  noises  of  the  revelers  and 
the  small  explosions  of  soda-water  and  beer-bottles 
almost  remote  enough  for  perfect  quiet.  He  was  stretched 
his  full  and  splendid  length  at  the  picnickers'  immemorial 
business  of  plucking  and  sucking  grass  blades,  and  she 
seated  very  trimly,  her  little  blue-serge  skirt  crawling  up 
ever  so  slightly  to  reveal  the  silken  ankle,  on  a  rock  beside 
him. 

"Tickle-tickle!"  she  cried,  with  some  of  that  irrepres- 
sible animal  spirit  of  hers,  and  leaning  to  brush  his  ear 
with  a  twig. 

He  caught  at  her  hand. 

"Hester,"  he  said,  "marry  me." 

She  felt  a  foaming  through  her  until  her  finger-tips 
sang. 


FANNIE    HURST  105 

"Well,  I  like  that!"  was  what  she  said,  though,  and 
flung  up  a  pointed  profile  that  was  like  that  same  gazelle's 
smelling  the  moon. 

He  was  very  darkly  red,  and  rose  to  his  knees  to  clasp 
her  about  the  waist.  She  felt  like  relaxing  back  against 
his  blondness  and  feeling  her  fingers  plow  through  the 
great  double  wave  of  his  hair.     But  she  did  not. 

"You're  too  poor,"  she  said. 

He  sat  back  without  speaking  for  a  long  minute. 

"Money  isn't  everything,"  he  said  finally,  and  with 
something  gone  from  his  voice. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  looking  off;  "but  it's  a  great  deal 
if  you  happen  to  want  it  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

"Then,  if  that's  how  you  feel  about  it,  Hester,  next  to 
wanting  you,  I  want  it,  too,  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world." 

"There's  no  future  in  bookkeeping." 

"I  know  a  fellow  in  Cincinnati  who's  a  hundred-and- 
fifty-doUar  man.     Hester?     Dear:" 

"A  week?" 

"Why,  of  course  not,  dear — a  month." 

"Faugh!"  she  said,  still  looking  off. 

He  felt  out  for  her  hand,  at  the  touch  of  her  reddening 
up  again. 

"Hester,"  he  said,  "you're  the  most  beautiful,  the  most 
exciting,  the  most  maddening,  the  most — the  most  every- 
thing girl  in  the  world !  You're  not  going  to  have  an 
easy  time  of  it,  Hester,  with  your — your  environment  and 
your  dangerousness,  if  you  don't  settle  down — quick, 
with  some  strong  fellow  to  take  care  of  you.  A  fellow 
who  loves  you.  That's  me,  Hester.  I  want  to  make  a 
little  home  for  you  and  protect  you,  I  can't  promise  you 
the  money — right  off,  but  I  can  promise  you  the  bigger 
something  from  the  very  start.  From  the  very  start, 
Hester.     Dear?" 

She  would  not  let  her  hand  relax  to  his. 

"I  hate  this  town,"  she  said. 

"There's  Cincinnati.  Maybe  my  friend  could  find  an 
opening  there." 


io6  BACK   PAY 

"Faugh !" 

"Cincinnati  dear,  is  a  metropolis." 

"No,  no!  You  don't  understand.  I  hate_  littleness. 
Even  little  metropolises.  Cheapness.  I  hate  little  towns 
and  little  spenders  and  mercerized  stockings  and  cotton 
lisle  next  to  my  skin,  and  machine-stitched  nightgowns — 
ugh;  It  scratches!" 

"And  I — I  just  love  you  in  those  starchy  white  shirt- 
waists,   Hester.     You're   beautiful." 

"That's  just  the  trouble.  It  satisfies  you,  but  it  suf- 
focates me.  I've  got  a  pink-crepe-de-Chine  soul.  Pink 
crepe  de  Chine — you  hear?" 

He  sat  back  on  his  heels. 

"It — Is  it  true,  then,  Hester  that— that  you're  making 
up  with  that  Jewish  traveling  salesman  from  New  York?" 

"Why!"  she  said,  coloring.  "Why,  I've  only  met  him 
twice   walking   up   High    Street   evenings !" 

"But  it  is  true,  isn't  it,  Hester?" 

"Say,  who  was  answering  your  questions  this  time  last 
year?" 

"But  it  is  true,  isn't  It,  Hester?     Isn't  it?" 

"Well,  of  all  the  nerve !" 

But  It  was. 

The  rest  tells  glibly.  The  Jewish  salesman,  ^Yho  wore 
blue-and-whlte-striped  soft  collars  with  a  bar  pin  across 
the  front,  does  not  even  enter  the  story.  He  was  only 
a  stepping-stone.  From  him,  the  ascent,  or  descent,  or 
whatever  you  choose  to  call  It,  was  quick  and  sheer. 

Five  years  later,  Hester  was  the  very  private,  the  very 
exotic,  manicured,  coiffured,  scented,  svelted,  and  strictly 
de-luxe  chattel  of  one  Charles  G.  Wheeler,  of  New  York 
city  and  Rosencranz,  Long  Island,  vice-president  of  the 
Standard  Tractor  Company,  a  member  of  no  clubs  but 
of  the  Rosencranz  church,  three  lodges,  and  several  cor- 
porations. 

You  see,  there  Is  no  obvious  detail  lacking.  Yes;  there 
was  an  apartment.  "Flat"  it  becomes  under  their  kind 
of  tenancy,  situated  on  the  windiest  bend  of  Riverside 
Drive  and  minutely  true  to  type  from  the  pale-blue  and 


FANNIE   HURST  107 

brocade  VernI  Martin  parlor  of  talking-machine,  me- 
chanical piano,  and  cellarette  built  to  simulate  a  music 
cabinet,  to  the  pink-brocaded  bedroom  with  a  chaise 
longue  piled  high  with  a  small  mountain  of  lace  pillow- 
ettes  that  were  liberally  interlarded  with_  paper-bound 
novels,  and  a  spacious,  white-marble  adjoining  bath- 
room with  a  sunken  tub,  rubber-sheeted  shower,  white- 
enamel  weighing  scales  and  over-loaded  medicine-chest 
of  cosmetic  array  in  frosted  bottles,  sleeping-,  headache-, 
sedative  powders,  et  al.  There  were  also  a  negro  maid, 
two  Pomeranian  dogs,  and  last,  but  by  no  means  least,  a 
private  telephone  enclosed  in  a  hall  closet  and  lighted  by 
an  electric  bulb  that  turned  on  automatically  to  the  open- 
ing of  the  door. 

There  was  nothing  sinister  about  Wheeler.  He  was  a 
rather  fair  exponent  of  that  amazing  genus  known  as 
"typical  New  Yorker,"  a  roll  of  money  in  his  pocket, 
and  a  roll  of  fat  at  the  back  of  his  neck.  He  went  in  for 
light  checked  suits,  wore  a  platinum-and-Oriental-pearl 
chain  across  his  waistcoat,  and  slept  at  a  Turkish  bath 
once  a  week;  was  once  named  in  a  large  corporation 
scandal,  escaping  indictment  only  after  violent  and  ex- 
pensive skirmishes,  could  be  either  savage  or  familiar 
with  waiters,  wore  highly  manicured  nails,  which  he  re- 
garded frequently  in  public,  white-silk  socks  only,  and 
maintained,  on  a  twenty-thousand-a-year  scale  in  the 
decorous  suburb  of  Rosencranz,  a  decorous  wife  and  three 
children,  and,  like  all  men  of  his  code,  his  ethics  were 
strictly  double-decked.  He  would  not  permit  his  nine- 
teen-year-old daughter  Marion  so  much  as  a  shopping- 
tour  to  the  city  without  the  chaperonage  of  her  mother 
or  a  friend,  forbade  in  his  wife,  a  comely  enough  woman 
with  a  white  unmarcelled  coiffure  and  upper  arms  a  bit 
baggy  with  withering  flesh,  even  the  slightest  of  shirt- 
waist V's  unless  filled  in  with  net,  and  kept  up,  at.  an  ex- 
pense of  no  less  than  fifteen  thousand  a  year — thirty 
the  war-year  that  tractors  jumped  into  the  war-industry 
class — the  very  high-priced,  -tempered,  -handled,  and 
-stepping  Hester  of  wild-gazelle  charm. 

Not  that  Hester  stepped  much.     There  were  a   long 


io8  BACK   PAY 

underslung  roadster  and  a  great  tan  limousine  with  yel- 
low-silk curtains  at  the  call  of  her  private  telephone. 

The  Wheeler  family  used,  not  without  complaint,  a 
large  open  car  of  very  early  vintage,  which  in  winter  was 
shut  in  with  flapping  curtains  with  isinglass  peepers,  and 
leaked  cold  air  badly. 

On  more  than  one  occasion  they  passed  on  the  road — 
these  cars.  The  long  tan  limousine  with  the  shock-ab- 
sorbers, foot-warmers,  two  brown  Pomeranian  dogs,  little 
case  of  enamel-top  bottles,  fresh  flowers,  and  outside 
this  little  jewel-case  interior,  smartly  exposed,  so  that  the 
blast  hit  him  from  all  sides,  a  chauffeur  in  uniform  that 
harmonized  nicely  with  the  tans  and  yellows.  And  then 
the  grotesque  caravan  of  the  Azoic  motor-age,  with  its 
flapping  curtains  and  ununiformed  youth  in  visored  cap 
at  the  wheel. 

There  is  undoubtedly  an  unsavory  aspect  to  this  story. 
For  purpose  of  fiction,  it  is  neither  fragrant  nor  easily 
digested.  But  it  is  not  so  unsavory  as  the  social  scheme 
which  made  it  possible  for  those  two  cars  to  pass  thus  on 
the  road,  and,  at  the  same  time,  Charles  G.  Wheeler  to 
remain  the  unchallenged'  member  of  the  three  lodges,  the 
corporations,  and  the  Rosencranz  church,  with  a  me- 
morial window  in  his  name  on  the  left  side  as  you  enter, 
and  again  his  name  spelled  out  on  a  brass  plate  at  the 
end  of  a  front  pew. 

No  one  but  God  and  Mrs.  Wheeler  knew  what  was  in 
her  heart.  It  is  possible  that  she  did  not  know  what  the 
world  knew,  but  hardly.  That  she  endured  it  is  not  ad- 
mirable, but  then  there  were  the  three  children,  and,  be- 
sides, she  lived  in  a  world  that  let  it  go  at  that.  And  so 
she  continued  to  hold  up  her  head  in  her  rather  poor, 
mute  way,  rode  beside  her  husband  to  funerals,  wed- 
dings, and  to  the  college  commencement  of  their  son  at 
Yale.  Scrimped  a  little,  cried  a  little,  prayed  a  little  in 
private,  but  outwardly  lived  the  life  of  the  smug  in  body 
and  soul. 

But  the  Wheelers'  is  another  story,  also  a  running 
social  sore;  but  it  was  Hester,  you  remember,  who  came 
sobbing  and  clamoring  to  be  told — and  so  back  to  her. 


FANNIE    HURST  109 

As  Wheeler  once  said  of 'her,  she  was  a  darn-fine  clothes- 
horse.  There  was  no  pushed-up  line  of  flesh  across  the 
middle  of  her  back,  as  the  corsets  did  it  to  Mrs.  Wheeler. 
She  was  honed  to  the  ounce.  The  white-enameled  weigh- 
ing scales,  the  sweet  oils,  the  flexible  fingers  of  her 
masseur,  the  dumb-bells,  the  cabinet,  salt-water,  needle- 
spray,  and  vapor-baths  saw  to  that.  Her  skin,  unlike 
Marion  Wheeler's,  was  unfreckled,  and  as  heavily  and 
tropically  white  as  a  magnolia  leaf,  and,  of  course,  she 
reddened  her  lips,  and  the  moonlike  pallor  came  out 
more  than  ever. 

As  I  said,  she  was  frankly  what  she  was.  No  man 
looked  at  her  more  than  once  without  knowing  it.  To 
use  an  awkward  metaphor,  it  was  before  her  face  like  an 
overtone;  it  was  an  invisible  caul.  The  wells  of  her  eyes 
were  muddy  with  it. 

But  withal,  she  commanded  something  of  a  manner, 
even  from  Wheeler.  He  had  no  key  to  the  apartment. 
He  never  entered  her  room  without  knocking.  There 
were  certain  of  his  friends  she  would  not  tolerate,  from 
one  or  another  aversion,  to  be  party  to  their  not  infre- 
quent carousals.  Men  did  not  always  rise  from  their 
chairs  when  she  entered  a  room,  but  she  sufi"ered  few  lib- 
erties from  them.  She  was  absolutely  indomitable  in 
her  demands. 

"Lord !"  ventured  Wheeler,  upon  occasion  across  a 
Sunday-noon,  lace-spread  breakfast-table,  when  she  was 
slim  and  cool-fingered  in  orchid-colored  draperies,  and 
his  newest  gift  of  a  six-carat,  pear-shaped  diamond  blaz- 
ing away  on  her  right  hand.  "Say,  aren't  these  Yvette 
bills  pretty  steep? 

"One  midnight-blue-and-silver  gown ^485.00 

One  blue-and-silvex  head  bandeau 50.00 

One  serge-and-satin  trotteur  gown 275.00 

One  ciel-blue  tea-gown 280.00 

"Is  that  the  cheapest  you  can  drink  tea?     Whew!" 
She  put  down  her  coffee-cup  which  she  usually  held 


no  BACK   PAY 

with  one  little  finger  poised  elegantly  outward  as  If  for 
flight. 

"You've  got  a  nerve!"  she  said,  rising  and  pushing 
back  her  chair.  "Over  whose  ticker  are  you  getting  quo- 
tations that  I  come  cheap?" 

He  was  immediately  conciliatory,  rising  also  to  enfold 
her  in  an  embrace  that  easily  held  her  slightness. 

"Go  on,"  he  said.  "You  could  work  me  for  the  Wool- 
worth  Building  in  diamonds  if  you  wanted  it  badly 
enough." 

"Funny  way  of  showing  it!  I  may  be  a  lot  of  things, 
Wheeler,  but  I'm  not  cheap.  You're  darn  lucky  that  the 
war  is  on  and  I'm  not  asking  for  a  French  car." 

He  crushed  his  lips  to  hers. 

"You  devil!"  he  said. 

There  were  frequent  parties.  Dancing  at  Broadway 
cabarets.  All-night  joy  rides,  punctuated  with  road- 
house  stop-overs  and  not  infrequently,  in  groups  of  three 
or  four  couples,  ten-day  pilgrimages  to  showy  American 
spas, 

"Getting  boiled  out,"  they  called  it.  It  was  part  of 
Hester's   scheme   for  keeping  her  sveltness. 

Her  friendships  were  necessarily  rather  confined  to  a 
definite  circle — within  her  own  apartment-house,  in  fact. 
On  the  floor  above,  also  in  large,  bright  rooms  of  high 
rental,  and  so  that  they  were  exchanging  visits  frequently 
during  the  day,  often  en  deshabille,  using  the  stairway 
that  wound  up  round  the  elevator-shaft,  lived  a  certain 
Mrs,  Kitty  Drew,  I  believe  she  called  herself.  She  was 
plump  and  blond,  and  so  very  scented  that  her  aroma  lay 
on  a  hallway  for  an  hour  after  she  had  scurried  through 
it.  She  was  well  known  and  chiefly  distinguished  by  a 
large  court-plaster  crescent  which  she  wore  on  her  left 
shoulder-blade.  She  enjoyed  the  bounty  of  a  Wall  Street 
broker  who  for  one  day  had  attained  the  conspicuousness 
of  cornering  the  egg-market. 

There  were  two  or  three  others  within  this  group.  A 
Mrs.  Denison,  half  French,  and  a  younger  girl  called 
Babe.  But  Mrs.  Drew  and  Hester  were  intimates. 
They  twaddled  daily  in  one  or  the  other's  apartments, 


FANNIE   HURST  in 

usually  lazy  and  lacy  with  negligee,  lounging  about  on  the 
mounds  of  lingerie  pillows  over  chocolates,  cigarettes, 
novels,  Pomeranians,  and  always  the  headache-powders, 
nerve-sedatives,  or  smelling-salts,  a  running  line  of  "Lord, 
I've  a  head!"  "I  need  a  good  cry  for  the  blues!"  "Talk 
about  a  dark-brown  taste,"  or,  "There  was  some  kick  to 
those   cocktails   last   night,"   through   their   conversation. 

Kitty:  Br-r-r!      I'm  as  nervous  as  a  cat  to-day. 

Hester:  Naughty,  naughty  bad  doggie  to  bite  muv- 
ver's  diamond  ring. 

Kitty:  Leave  it  to  you  to  land  a  pear-shaped  diamond 
on  your  hooks. 

Hester:  He  fell  for  it,  just  like  that! 

Kitty:   You  could  milk  a  billiard-ball. 

Hester:  I  don't  see  any  "quality  of  mercy"  to  spare 
around  your  flat. 

There  were  the  two  years  of  high  school,  you  see. 

"Ed's  going  out  to  Geyser  Springs  next  month  for  the 
cure.  I  told  him  he  could  not  go  without  me  unless  over 
my  dead  body,  he  could  not." 

"Geyser  Springs.  That's  thirty  miles  from  my  home 
town." 

"Your  home  town?  Nighty-night!  I  thought  you 
was  born  on  the  corner  of  Forty-second  street  and  Broad- 
way  with   a   lobster  claw   in   your   mouth." 

"Demopolis,  Ohio." 

"What  is  that — a  skin-disease?" 

"My  last  relation  in  the  world  died  out  there  two  years 
ago.  An  aunt.  Wouldn't  mind  some  Geyser  Springs 
myself  if  I  could  get  some  of  this  stiffness  out  of  my 
joints," 

"Come  on,  I  dare  you !  May  Denison  and  Chris  will 
come  in  on  it,  and  Babe  can  always  find  somebody. 
Make  it  three  or  four  cars  full  and  let's  motor  out.  We 
all  need  a  good  boiling,  anyways.  Wheeler  looks  about 
ready  for  spontaneous  combustion,  and  I  got  a  twinge 
in  my  left  little  toe.     You  on?" 

"I  am,  if  he  is." 

"  'If  he  is !'  He'd  fall  for  life  in  an  Igorrote  village 
with  a  ring  in  his  nose  if  you  wanted  it." 


112  BACK   PAY 

And  truly  enough,  it  did  come  about  that  on  a  height- 
of-the-season  evening,  a  highly  cosmopolitan  party  of 
four  couples  trooped  into  the  solid-marble  foyer  of  the 
Geyser  Springs  Hotel,  motor-coated,  goggled,  veiled;  a 
whole  litter  of  pigskin  and  patent-leather  bags,  hampers, 
and  hat-boxes,  two  golf-bags,  two  Pomeranians,  a  bull  in 
spiked  collar,  furs,  leather  coats,  monogrammed  rugs, 
thermos  bottles,  air-pillows,  robes,  and  an  ensemble  of 
fourteen  wardrobe-trunks  sent  by  express. 

They  took  the  "cure."  Rode  horseback,  motored, 
played  roulette  at  the  casino  for  big  stakes,  and  eschewed 
the  American  plan  of  service  for  the  smarter  European 
idea,  with  a  special  a-la-carte  menu  for  each  meal.  Ex- 
traordinary-looking mixed  drinks,  and  strictly  against  the 
mandates  of  the  "cure,"  appeared  at  their  table.  Strange 
midnight  goings-on  were  reported  by  the  more  conserva- 
tive hotel  guests,  and  the  privacy  of  their  circle  was 
allowed  full  integrity  by  the  little  veranda  groups  of 
gouty  ladies  or  middle-aged  husbands  with  liver-spots  on 
their  faces.  The  bath-attendants  reveled  in  the  largest 
tips  of  the  season.  When  Hester  walked  down  the  large 
dining-room  evenings,  she  was  a  signal  for  the  craning 
of  necks  for  the  newest  shock  of  her  newest  extreme 
toilette.  The  kinds  of  toilettes  that  shocked  the  women 
into  envy  and  mental  notes  of  how  the  under  arm  was 
cut,  and  the  men  into  covert  delight.  Wheeler  liked  to 
sit  back  and  put  her  through  her  paces  like  a  high-strung 
filly. 

"Make  'em  sit  up,  girl!  You  got  them  all  looking  like 
dimes  around  here." 

One  night,  she  descended  to  the  dining-room  in  a  black 
evening  gown  so  daringly  lacking  in  back  and  yet,  withal, 
so  slimly  perfect  an  elegant  thing  that  an  actual  breath- 
lessness  hung  over  the  hall,  the  clatter  of  dishes  pausing. 

There  was  a  gold  bird  of  paradise  dipped  down  her 
hair  over  one  shoulder,  trailing  its  smoothness  like  fingers 
of  lace.     She  defied  with  it  as  she  walked. 

"Take  it  from  me,"  said  Kitty,  who  felt  fat  in  lavender 
that  night,  "she's  going  it  one  too  strong." 

Another  evening,  she  descended,  always  last,  in  a  cloth 


FANNIE    HURST  113 

of  silver,  with  a  tiny,  an  absurd,  an  impeccably  tight 
silver  turban  dipped  down  over  one  eye,  and  absolutely 
devoid  of  jewels  except  the  pear-shaped  diamond  on  her 
left  forefinger. 

They  were  a  noisy,  a  spending,  a  cosmopolitan  crowd 
of  too  well-fed  men  and  too  well-groomed  women,  ignored 
by  the  veranda  groups  of  wives  and  mothers,  openly 
dazzling  and  arousing  a  tremendous  curiosity  in  the 
younger  set,  and  quite  obviously  sought  after  by  their 
own  kind. 

But  Hester's  world,  too,  is  all  run  through  with  sharply 
defined,  social  schisms. 

"I  wish  that  Irwin  woman  wouldn't  always  hang 
round  our  crowd,"  she  said,  one  morning,  as  she  and 
Kitty  lay  side  by  side  in  the  cooling-room  after  their 
baths,  massages,  manicures,  and  shampoos.  "I  don't 
want  to  be  seen  running  with  her." 

"Did  you  see  the  square  emerald  she  wore  last  night?" 

"Fake.  I  know  the  clerk  at  the  Synthetic  Jewelry 
Company  had  it  made  up  for  her.  She's  cheap,  I  tell 
you.  Promiscuous.  Who  ever  heard  of  anybody  stand- 
ing back  of  her.  She  knocks  around.  She  sells  her  old 
clothes  to  Tessie,  my  m^anicurist.  I've  got  a  line  on  her. 
She's  cheap." 

Kitty,  who  lay  with  her  face  under  a  white  mud  of 
cold-cream  and  her  little  mouth  merely  a  hole,  turned 
on  her  elbow. 

"We  can't  all  be  top-notchers,  Hester,"  she  said. 
"You're  hard  as  nails." 

"I  guess  I  am,  but  you've  got  to  be  to  play  this  game. 
The  ones  who  aren't  end  up  by  stuffing  the  keyhole  and 
turning  on  the  gas.  You've  got  to  play  it  hard  or  not 
at  all.  If  you've  got  the  name,  you  might  as  well  have 
the  game." 

"If  I  had  it  to  do  over  again — well,  there  would  be  one 
more  wife-and-mother  role  being  played  in  this  little  old 
world,  even  if  I  had  to  play  it  on  a  South  Dakota  farm." 

"  'Whatever  is  worth  doing  is  worth  doing  well,'  I 
used  to  write  in  the  copy-book.  Well,  that's  the  way  I 
feel  about  this:  To  me,  anything  is  worth  doing  to  escape 


114  BACK   PAY 

the  cotton  stockings  and  lisle^next  to  your  skin.  I  admit 
I  never  sit  down  and  think.  You  know,  sit  down  and 
take  stock  of  myself.  What's  the  use  thinking?  Live! 
Yes,"  mused  Hester,  her  arms  in  a  wreath  over  her  head, 
*'I  think  I'd  do  it  all  over  again.  There's  not  been  so 
many  at  that.  Three.  The  first  was  a  Jew.  He'd  have 
married  me,  but  I  couldn't  see  it  on  six  thousand  a 
year.  Nice  fellow,  too — an  easy  spender  in  a  small  way, 
but  I  couldn't  see  a  future  to  ladies'  neckwear.  They 
make  good  husbands,  Jews  do.  I  hear  he  made  good 
later  in  munitions.  Al  was  a  pretty  good  sort,  too,  but 
tight.  How  I  hate  tightness!  I've  been  pretty  lucky  in 
the  long  run,  I  guess." 

"Did  I  say  'hard  as  nails'?"  said  Kitty,  grotesquely 
fitting  a  cigarette  in  the  aperture  of  her  mouth.  "I 
apologize.  Why,  alongside  of  you,  a  piece  of  flint  is 
morning  cereal.  Haven't  you  ever  had  a  love-affair? 
I've  been  married  twice — that's  how  chicken-hearted  I 
can  be.  Haven't  you  ever  pumped  a  little  faster  just 
because  a  certain  some  one  walked  into  the  room?" 

"Once." 

"Once  what?" 

"I  liked  a  fellow.  Pretty  much.  A  blond.  Say,  he 
was  blond!  I  always  think  to  myself.  Kit — next  to 
Gerald  you've  got  the  bluest  eyes  under  heaven.  Only, 
his  didn't  have  any  dregs." 

"Thanks,  dearie." 

"I  sometimes  wonder  about  Gerald.  I  ought  to  drive 
over  while  we're  out  here.     Poor  old  Gerald  Fishback!" 

"Sweet  name — 'Fishback.'  No  wonder  you  went 
wrong,  dearie." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  getting  soft.  I  saw  my  bed  and  made  it, 
nice  and  soft  and  comfy,  and  I'm  lying  on  it  without  a 
whimper." 

"You  just  bet  your  life  you  made  it  up  nice  and  comfy! 
You've  the  right  idea;  I  have  to  hand  that  to  you.  You 
command  respect  from  them.  Lord!  Ed  would  as  soon 
fire  a  teacup  at  me  as  not.  But^with  me,  it  pays.  The 
last  one  he  broke  he  made  up  to  me  with  my  opal-and- 
diamond  beetle." 


FANNIE    HURST  115 

"Wouldn't  wear  an  opal  If  It  was  set  next  to  the  Hope 
diamond." 

"Superstitious,  dearie?" 

"Unlucky.     Never  knew  It  to  fall." 

"Not  a  superstition  in  my  bones.  I  don't  believe  In 
walking  under  ladders  or  opening  an  umbrella  in  the 
house  or  sitting  down  with  thirteen,  but,  Lordy,  never 
saw  the  like  with  you!  Thought  you'd  have  the  hys- 
terics over  that  little  old  vanity  mirror  you  broke  that 
day  out  at  the  races." 

"Br-r-r;      I  hated  It." 

"Lay  easy,  dearie.  Nothing  can  touch  you  the  way 
he's  raking  in  the  war-contracts." 

"Great— isn't  It?" 

"Play  for  a  country  home,  dearie.  I  always  say  real 
estate  and  jewelry  are  something  in  the  hand.  Look 
ahead  in  this  game,  I  always  say." 

"You  just  bet  I've  looked  ahead." 

"So  have  I,  but  not  enough." 

"Somehow,  I  never  feel  afraid.  I  could  get  a  job  to- 
morrow if  I  had  to." 

"Say,  dearie,  if  it  comes  to  that,  with  twenty  pounds 
off  me,  there's  not  a,  chorus  I  couldn't  land  back  in." 

"I  worked  once,  you  know,  in  Lichtig's  import  shop." 

"Fifth  Avenue." 

"Yes.  It  was  In  between  the  Jew  and  Al.  I  sold  two 
thousand  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  gowns  the  first 
week." 

"Sure  enough?" 
•    "'Girl,'  old  man  Lichtig  said  to  me  the  day  I  quit; 
'girl,'  he  said,   'if  ever  you   need  this  job   again,  come 
back;  It's  waiting.' " 

"Fine  chance!" 

"I've  got  the  last  twenty-five  dollars  I  earned  pinned 
away  this  minute  in  the  pocket  of  the  little  dark-blue  suit 
I  wore  to  work.  I  paid  for  that  suit  with  my  first  month's 
savings.  A  little  dark-blue  Norfolk,  Lichtig  let  me  have 
out  of  a  stock  for  twenty-seven  fifty." 

"Were  they  giving  them  away  with  a  pound  of  tea?" 

"Honest,  Kitty,  it  was  neat.     Little  white  shirt-waist, 


ii6  BACK   PAY 

tan  shoes,  and  one  of  those  slick  little  five-dollar  sailors, 
and  every  cent  paid  out  of  my  salary.  I  could  step  into 
that  outfit  to-morrow,  look  the  part,  and  land  back  that 
job  or  any  other.  I  had  a  way  with  the  trade,  even 
back  at  Finley's." 

"Here,  hold  my  jewel-bag,  honey;  I'm  going  to  die  of 
cold-cream  suffocation  if  she  don't  soon  come  back  and 
unsmear  me." 

"Opal  beetle  in  it?" 

"Yes,  dearie;  but  it  won't  bite.  It's  muzzled  with  my 
diamond  horseshoe." 

"Nothing  doing.  Kit.     Put  it  under  your  pillow." 

"You  better  watch  out.  There's  a  thirteenth  letter  in 
the  alphabet;  you  might  accidentally  use  it  some  day. 
You're  going  to  have  a  sweet  time  to-night,  you   are!" 

"Why?" 

"The  boys  have  engaged  De  Butera  to  come  up  to  the 
rooms." 

"You  mean  the  fortune-teller  over  at  the  Stag  Hotel?" 

"She's  not  a  fortune-teller,  you  poor  nervous  wreck. 
She's  the  highest-priced  spiritualist  in  the  world.  Mov- 
ing tables — spooks — woof!" 

"Faugh!"  said  Hester,  rising  from  her  couch  and  feel- 
ing about  with  her  little  bare  feet  for  the  daintiest  of 
pink-silk  mules.  "I  could  make  tables  move  too,  at  forty 
dollars  an  hour.  Where's  my  attendant?  I  want  an 
alcohol  rub." 

They  did  hold  seance  that  night  in  a  fine  spirit  of  lark, 
huddled  together  in  the  de-luxe  sitting-room  of  one  of 
their  suites,  and  little  half-hysterical  shrieks  and  much 
promiscuous   ribaldry  under  cover  of  darkness. 

Madame  De  Butera  was  of  a  distinctly  fat  and  earthy 
blondness,  with  a  coarse-lace  waist  over  pink,  and  short 
hands  covered  with  turquoise  rings  of  many  shapes  and 
blues. 

Tables  moved.  A  dead  sister  of  Wheeler's  spoke  in 
thin,  high  voice.  Why  is  it  the  dead  are  always  so  vocally 
thin  and  high? 

A  chair  tilted  itself  on  hind  legs,  eliciting  squeals  from 
the  women.     Babe  spoke  with  a  gentleman  friend  long 


FANNIE   HURST  117 

since  passed  on,  and  Kitty  with  a  deceased  husband, 
and  began  to  cry  quite  sobbily  and  took  little  sips  of  high- 
ball quite  gulpily.  May  Denison,  who  was  openly  de- 
fiant, allowed  herself  to  be  hypnotized  and  lay  rigid  be- 
tween two  chairs,  and  Kitty  went  off  into  rampant  hys- 
teria until  Wheeler  finally  placed  a  hundred-dollar  bill 
over  the  closed  eyes,  and  whether  under  it,  or  to  the 
legerdemain  of  madam's  manipulating  hands,  the  tight 
eyes  opened,  May,  amid  riots  of  laughter  claiming  for 
herself  the  hundred-dollar  bill,  and  Kitty,  quite  resusci- 
tated, jumping  up  for  a  table  cancan,  her  yellow  hair 
tumbling,  and  her  China-blue  eyes  with  the  dregs  in  them 
inclined  to  water. 

All  but  Hester.  She  sat  off  by  herself  in  a  peacock- 
colored  gown  that  wrapped  her  body-suavity  as  if  the 
fabric  were  soaking  wet,  a  band  of  smoky  blue  about  her 
forehead.  Never  intoxicated,  a  slight  amount  of  alcohol 
had  a  tendency  to  make  her  morose. 

"What's  the  matter,  Cleo:"  asked  Wheeler,  sitting 
down  beside  her  and  lifting  her  cool  fingers  one  by  one, 
and,  by  reason  of  some  remote  analogy  that  must 
have  stirred  within  him,  seeing  in  her  a  Nile  queen. 
"What's  the  matter,  Cleo;  does  the  spook-stuff  get  your 
goat.^" 

She  turned  on  him  eyes  that  were  all  troubled  up  like 
waters  suddenly  wind-blown. 

"God!"  she  said,  her  fingers,  nails  inward,  closing  about 
his  arm.     "Wheeler — can — can  the — dead — speak?," 

But  fleeting  as  the  hours  themselves  were  the  moods 
of  them  all,  and  the  following  morning  there  they  were, 
the  eight  of  them,  light  with  laughter  and  caparisoned 
again  as  to  hampers,  veils,  coats,  dogs,  off  for  a  day's 
motoring  through  the  springtime  countryside. 

"Where  tor"  shouted  Wheeler,  twisting  from  where 
he  and  Hester  sat  in  the  first  of  the  cars  to  call  to  the 
two  motor-loads  behind. 

"I  thought  Crystal  Cave  was  the  spot" — from  May 
Denison  in  the  last  of  the  cars,  winding  her  head  in  a 
scarlet  veil. 

"Crystal  Springs  it  is,  then." 


ii8  BACK   PAY 

"Is  that  through  Demopolis?" 
Followed  a  scanning  of  maps. 

"Sure!  Here  it  is!  See!  Granite  City.  Mitchell. 
Demopolis.     Crystal  Cave." 

"Good  Lord,  Hester,  you're  not  going  to  spend  any 
time  in  that  dump?" 

"It's  my  home  town,"  she  replied  coldly.  "The  only 
relation  I  had  is  buried  there.  It's  nothing  out  of  your 
way  to  drop  me  on  the  court-house  steps  and  pick  me 
up  as  you  drive  back.  I've  been  wanting  to  get  there 
ever  since  we're  down  here.  Wanting  to  stop  by  your 
home  town  you  haven't  seen  in  five  years  isn't  unreason- 
able, is  it.'"' 

He  admitted  it  wasn't,  leaning  to  kiss  her. 
She  turned  to  him  a  face,  soft,  with  one  of  the  pouts  he 
usually  found  irresistible. 

"Honey,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  think?" 
"What?" 

"Chris  is  buying  May  that  chinchilla  coat  I  showed 
you  in  Meyerbloom's  window  the  day  before  we  left." 

"The  deuce  he  is !"  he  said,  letting  go  of  her  hand  but 
hers  immediately  covering  his. 

"She's  wiring  her  sister  in  the  'Girlie  Revue'  to  go  in 
and  buy  it  for  her." 

"Outrage — fifteen  thousand  dollars  to  cover  a  woman's 
back!  Look  at  the  beautiful  scenery,  honey!  You're 
always  prating  about  views.  Look  at  those  hills  over 
there!     Great — isn't  it?" 

"I  wouldn't  expect  it,  Wheeler,  if  it  wasn't  war-year 
and  you  landing  one  big  contract  after  another.  I'd  hate 
to  see  May  show  herself  in  that  chinchilla  coat  when  we 
could  beat  her  to  it  by  a  wire.  I  could  telegraph  Meyer- 
bloom  himself.  I  bought  the  sable  rug  of  him.  I'd  hate 
it,  Wheeler,  to  see  her  and  Chris  beat  us  to  it.  So 
would  you.  What's  fifteen  thousand  when  one  of  your 
contracts  alone  runs  into  the  hundred  thousands? 
Honey?" 

"Wire,"  he  said  sourly,  but  not  withdrawing  his  hand 
from  hers. 


FANNIE   HURST  119 

They  left  her  at  the  shady  court-house  steps  in  Demo- 
polis,  but  with  pleasantry  and  gibe. 

"Give  my  love  to  the  town  pump." 

"Rush  the  old  oaken  growler  for  me." 

"So  long!"  she  called,  eager  to  be  rid  of  them.  "Pick 
me  up  at  six  sharp." 

She  walked  slowly  up  High  Street.  Passers-by  turned 
to  stare,  but  otherwise  she  was  unrecognized.  There  was 
a  new  Five-and-Ten-Cent  Store,  and  Finley  Brothers 
had  added  an  ell.  High  Street  was  paved.  She  made  a 
foray  down  into  the  little  side  street  where  she  had  spent 
those  queerly  remote  first  seventeen  years  of  her  life. 
How  dim  her  aunt  seemed!  The  little  unpainted  frame 
house  was  gone.  There  was  a  lumber-yard  on  the  site. 
Everything  seemed  to  have  shrunk.  The  street  was  nar- 
rower and  dirtier  than  she  recalled  it. 

She  made  one  stop,  at  the  house  of  Alaggie  Simms,  a 
high-school  chum.  It  was  a  frame  house,  too,  and  she 
remembered  that  the  front  door  opened  directly  into  the 
parlor  and  the  side  entrance  was  popularly  used  in  lieu. 
But  a  strange  sister-in-law  opened  the  side  door.  Maggie 
was  married  and  living  in  Cincinnati.  Oh,  fine — a  master 
mechanic,  and  there  were  twins.  She  started  back 
toward  Finley's,  thinking  of  Gerald,  and  half-way  she 
changed  her  mind. 

Maggie  Simms  married  and  living  in  Cincinnati. 
Twins!  Heigh-ho — what  a  world!  The  visit  was  hardly 
a  success.  At  half  after  five,  she  was  on  her  way  back 
to  the  court-house  steps.     Stupid  to  have  made  it  six! 

And  then,  of  course,  and  quite  as  you  would  have  it, 
Gerald  Fishback  came  along.  She  recognized  his  blond- 
ness  long  before  he  saw  her.  He  was  bigger  and  more 
tanned,  and,  as  of  old,  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand.  She 
noticed  that  there  were  no  creases  down  the  front  of  his 
trousers,  but  the  tweed  was  good  and  he  gave  off  that 
intangible  aroma  of  well-being. 

She  was  surprised  at  the  old  thrill  racing  over  her. 
Seeing  him  was  like  an  exquisite  stab  of  quick  steel 
through  the  very  pit  of  her  being.  She  reached  out, 
touching  him,  before  he  saw  her. 


120  BACK   PAY 

"Gerald,"  she  said,  soft  and  teaslngly. 

It  was  actually  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  that  touch, 
because,  before  he  could  possibly  have  perceived  her,  her 
name  was  on  his  lips. 

"Hester!"  he  said,  the  blueness  of  his  eyes  flashing  be- 
tween blinks.     "Not  Hester?" 

"Yes;  Hester,"  she  said,  smiling  up  at  him. 

He  grasped  both  her  hands,  stammering  for  words  that 
wanted  to  come  quicker  than  he  could  articulate. 

"Hester!"  he  kept  repeating.  "Hester!" 

"To  think  you  knew  me,  Gerald !" 

"Know  you !  I'd  know  you  blind-folded.  And  how — 
I — you're  beautiful,  Hester!  I  think  you've  grown  five 
years  younger." 

"You've  got  on,  Gerald.     You  look  it." 

"Yes;  I'm  general  manager  now  at  Finley's." 

"I'm  so  glad.     Married?" 

"Not  while  there's  a  Hester  Bevins  on  earth." 

She  started  at  her  own  name. 

"How  do  you  know  I'm  not?" 

"I — I  know — "  he  said,  reddening  up. 

"Isn't  there  some  place  we  can  talk,  Gerald?  I've 
thirty  minutes  before  my  friends  call  for  me." 

"Thirty  minutes?" 

"Your  rooms?  Haven't  you  rooms  or  a  room  where 
we  could  go  and  sit  down?" 

"Why — why,  no,  Hester,"  he  said,  still  red.  "I'd 
rather  you  didn't  go  there.  But  here.  Let's  stop  in  at 
the  St.  James  HotCi.     There's  a  parlor." 

To  her  surprise,  she  felt  herself  color  up  and  was 
pleasantly  conscious  of  her  finger-tips. 

"You  darling!"     She  smiled  up  at  him. 

They  were  seated  presently  in  the  unaired  plush-and- 
cherry,  Nottingham-and-Axminster  parlor  of  a  small- 
town hotel. 

"Hester!"  he  kept  repeating.     "Hester!" 

"I'm  a  bad  durl,"  she  said,  challenging  his  eyes  for 
what  he  knew. 

"You're  a  little  saint  walked  down  and  leaving  an 
empty  pedestal  in  my  dreams." 


FANNIE    HURST  121 

She  placed  his  forefinger  over  his  mouth. 

"Sh-h,"  she  said.  "I'm  not  a  saint,  Gerald;  you  know 
that." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  great  deal  of  boyishness  in  his 
defiance;  "I  do  know  it,  Hester,  but  it  Is  those  who  have 
been  through  the  fire  who  come  out — new.  It  was  your 
early  environment." 

"My  aunt  died  on  the  town,  Gerald,  I  heard.  I  could 
have  saved  her  all  that  if  I  had  only  known.  She  was 
cheap,  aunt  was.     Poor  soul!     She  never  looked  ahead." 

"It  was  your  early  environment,  Hester.  I've  ex- 
plained that  often  enough  to  them  here.  I'd  bank  on 
you,  Hester — swear  by  you." 

She  patted  him. 

"I'm  a  pretty  bad  egg,  Gerald.  According  to  the 
standards  of  a  town  like  this,  I'm  rotten,  and  they're 
about  right.     For  five  years,  Gerald,   I've — " 

"The  real  yoti  is  ahead  of,  and  not  behind  you,  Hester." 

"How  wonderful,"  she  said,  "for  you  to  feel  that  way, 
but—" 

"Hester,"  he  said,  more  and  more  the  big  boy,  his 
knees  touching  the  floor  now,  and  his  big  blond  head 
nearing  hers,  "I  don't  care  about  anything  that's  past; 
I  only  know  that,  for  me,  you  are  the — " 

"Gerald,"  she  said,  "for  God's  sake!" 

"I'm  a  two-hundred-a-month  man  now,  Hester;  I  want 
to  build  you  the  prettiest,  the  whitest  little  house  in  this 
town.  Out  in  the  Brierwood  section.  I'll  make  them 
kowtow  to  you,  Hester;  I — " 

"Why,"  she  said  slowly,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  cer- 
tain sadness,  "you  couldn't  keep  me  in  stockings,  Gerald. 
The  gora  on  this  hat  cost  more  than  one  month  of  your 
salary." 

"Good  God!"  he  said. 

"You're  a  dear,  sweet  boy  just  the  same;  but  you  re- 
member what  I  told  you  about  my  crepe-de-Chine  soul." 

"Just  the  same,  I  love  you  best  in  those  crispy  white 
shirt-waists  you  used  to  wear  and  the  little  blue  suits  and 
sailor-hats.  You  remember  that  day  at  Finley's  picnic, 
Hester,  that  day,  dear,  that  you — you — " 


122  BACK   PAY 

"You  dear  boy!" 

"But  it — your  mistake — it — It's  all  over.  You  work 
now,  don't  you,  Hester?" 

Somehow,  looking  into  the  blueness  of  his  eyes  and 
their  entreaty  for  her  affirmative,  she  did  what  you  or  I 
might  have  done.  She  half  lied,  regretting  it  while  the 
words  still  smoked  on  her  lips. 

"Why,  yes,  Gerald,  I've  held  a  fine  position  in  Lichtig 
Brothers,  New  York  importers.  Those  places  sometimes 
pay  as  high  as  seventy-five  a  week.  But  I  don't  make 
any  bones,  Gerald;  I've  not  been  an  angel." 

"The — the  Jew,  Hester?" — his  lips  quivering  with  a 
nausea  for  the  question. 

"I  haven't  seen  him  in  four  years,"  she  answered  truth- 
fully. 

He  laid  his  cheek  on  her  hand. 

"I  knew  you'd  come  through.  It  was  your  environ- 
ment. I'll  marry  you  to-morrow — to-day,  Hester;  I  love 
you." 

"You  darling  boy!"  she  said,  her  lips  back  tight  against 
her  teeth.     "You  darling,  darling  boy!" 

"Please,  Hester — we'll  forget  what  has  been." 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said,  rising  and  pinning  on  her  hat;  "let 
me  go — or — or  I'll  cry,  and — and  I  don't  want  to  cry." 

"Hester,"  he  called,  rushing  after  her  and  wanting  to 
fold  her  back  into  his  arms,  "let  me  prove  my  trust — my 
love—" 

"Don't!     Let  me  go!     Let  me  go!" 

At  slightly  after  six,  the  ultra  cavalcade  drew  up  at 
the  court-house  steps.  She  was  greeted  with  the  pleas- 
antries and  the  gibes. 

"Have  a  good  time,  sweetness?"  asked  Wheeler,  ar- 
ranging her  rugs. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  lying  back  and  letting  her  lids  droop; 
"but  tired — very,  very  tired." 

At  the  hotel,  she  stopped  a  moment  to  write  a  telegram 
before  going  up  for  the  vapor-bath,  nap,  and  massage 
that  were  to  precede  dinner. 

"Meyerbloom  &  Company,  Furriers.  Fifth  Avenue, 
New  York,"  it  was  addressed. 


FANNIE    HURST  123 

This  Is  not  a  war-story  except  as  it  has  to  do  with 
profiteering,  parlor-patriots,  and  the  return  of  Gerald 
Fishback. 

While  Hester  was  living  this  tale,  and  the  chinchilla 
coat  was  enveloping  her  like  an  Ineffably  tender  caress, 
three  hundred  thousand  of  her  country's  youths  were  at 
strangle-hold  across  three  thousand  miles  of  sea,  and  on 
a  notorious  night  when  Hester  walked,  fully  dressed  In  a 
green  gown  of  iridescent  fish-scales,  into  the  electric 
fountain  of  a  seaside  cabaret,  and  Wheeler  had  to  carry 
her  to  her  car  wrapped  in  a  sable  rug,  Gerald  Fishback 
was  lying  with  his  face  in  Flanders  mud,  and  his  eye- 
sockets  blackly  deep  and  full  of  shrapnel,  and  a  lung- 
eating  gas-cloud  rolling  at  him  across  the  vast  bombarded 
dawn. 

Hester  read  of  him  one  morning,  sitting  up  In  bed 
against  a  mound  of  lace-over-plnk  pillows,  a  masseur  at 
the  pink  soles  of  her  feet.  It  was  as  if  his  name  cata- 
pulted at  her  from  a  column  she  never  troubled  to  read. 
She  remained  quite  still,  looking  at  the  name  for  a  full 
five  minutes  after  it  had  pierced  her  full  consciousness. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  swung  out  of  bed,  tilting  over  the 
masseur. 

"Tessie,"  she  said,  evenly  enough,  "that  will  do.  I 
have  to  hurry  to  Long  Island  to  a  base  hospital.  Go  to 
that  little  telephone  in  the  hall — will  you.'' —  and  call  my 
car. 

But  the  visit  was  not  so  easy  of  execution.  It  required 
two  days  of  red  tape  and  official  dispensation  before  she 
finally  reached  the  seaside  hospital  that,  by  unpleasant 
coincidence,  only  a  year  before  had  been  the  resort  hotel 
of  more  than  one  dancing-orgy. 

She  thought  she  would  faint  when  she  saw  him,  jerking 
herself  back  with  a  straining  of  all  her  faculties.  The 
blood  seemed  to  drain  away  from  her  body,  leaving  her 
ready  to  sink,  and  only  the  watchful  and  threatening  eye 
of  a  man  nurse  sustained  her.  He  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
and  she  would  never  have  recognized  in  him  anything 
of  Gerald  except  for  the  shining  Scandinavian  quality  of 


124  BACK   PAY 

his  hair.  His  eyes  were  not  bandaged,  but  their  sockets 
were  dry  and  bare  like  the  beds  of  old  lakes  long  since 
drained.  She  had  only  seen  the  like  in  eyeless  marble 
busts.  There  were  unsuspected  cheek-bones,  pitched  now 
very  high  in  his  face,  and  his  neck,  rising  above  the  army 
nightshirt,  seemed  cruelly  long,   possibly   from  thinness. 

"Are  you  Hester?"  whispered  the  man  nurse. 

She  nodded,  her  tonsils  squeezed  together  in  an  abso- 
lute knot. 

"He  called  for  you  all  through  his  delirium,"  he  said, 
and  went  out.  She  stood  at  the  bedside,  trying  to  keep 
down  the  screams  from  her  speech  when  it  should  come. 
But  he  was  too  quick  for  her. 

"Hester,"  he  said,  feeling  out. 

And  in  their  embrace,  her  agony  melted  to  tears  that 
choked  and  seared,  beat  and  scalded  her,  and  all  the  time 
it  was  he  who  held  her  with  rigid  arm,  whispr  ed  to  her, 
soothed  down  the  sobs  which  tore  through  her  like  the  rip 
of  silk,  seeming  to  split  her  being. 

"Now — now.  Why,  Hester!  Now — now — now.  Sh-h 
— it  will  be  over  in  a  minute.  You  mustn't  feel  badly. 
Come  now;  is  this  the  way  to  greet  a  fellow  that's  so  darn 
glad  to  see  you  that  nothing  matters.''  Sure  I  can  see 
you,  Hester.  Plain  as  day  in  your  little  crispy  waist. 
Now,  now;  you'll  get  used  to  it  in  a  minute.  Now — 
now — " 

"I  can't  stand  it,  Gerald;  I  can't!  Can't!  Kill  me, 
Gerald,  but  don't  ask  me  to  stand  it!" 

He  stroked  down  the  side  of  her,  lingering  at  her  cheek, 

"Sh-h.  Take  your  time,  dear,"  he  said,  with  the  first 
furry  note  in  his  voice.  "I  know  it's  hard,  but  take 
your  time.  You'll  get  used  to  me.  It's  the  shock,  that's 
all.     Sh-h." 

She  covered  his  neck  with  kisses  and  scalding  tears, 
her  compassion  for  him  racing  through  her  in  chills. 

"I  could  tear  out  my  eyes,  Gerald,  and  give  them  to 
you.  I  could  tear  out  my  heart  and  give  it  to  you.  Fm 
bursting  of  pain.     Gerald!     Gerald!" 

There  was  no  sense  of  proportion  left  her.  She  could 
think   only   of   what   her    own    physical    suffering   might 


FANNIE   HURST  125 

do  In  penance.  She  would  willingly  have  opened  the 
arteries  of  her  heart  and  bled  for  him  on  the  moment. 
Her  compassion  wanted  to  scream.  She,  who  had  never 
sacrificed  anything,  wanted  suddenly  to  bleed  at  his  feet, 
and  prayed  to  do  so  on  the  agonized  crest  of  the 
moment. 

"There's  a  girl!  Why,  I'm  going  to  get  well,  Hester, 
and  do  what  thousands  of  others  of  the  blinded  are  doing. 
Build  up  a  new,  a  useful,  and  a  busy  life." 

"It's  not  fair!     It's  not  fair!" 

"I'm  ready  now,  except  for  this  old  left  lung.  It's 
burned  a  bit,  vou  see.     Gas." 

"God!     God!" 

"It's  pretty  bad,  I  admit.  But  there's  another  way  of 
looking  at  it.  There's  a  glory  in  being  chosen  to  bear 
your  country's  wounds." 

"Your  beautiful  eyes!  Your  blue,  beautiful  eyes!  O 
God,  what  does  it  all  mean?  Living!  Dying!  All  the 
rotters,  all  the  rat-eved  ones  I  know,  scot-free  and  Gerald 
chosen.     God,  God,  where  are  you?" 

"He  was  never  so  close  to  me  as  now,  Hester.  And 
with  you  here,  dear,  he  is  closer  than  ever." 

"I'll  never  leave  you,  Gerald,"  she  said,  crying  down 
Into  his  sleeve  again.  "Don't  be  afraid  of  the  dark,  dear! 
I'll  never  leave  you." 

"Nonsense,"  he  said,  smoothing  her  hair  that  the  hat 
had  fallen  away  from. 

"Never !  Never !  I  wish  I  were  a  mat  for  you  to 
walk  on.  I  Vv'ant  to  crawl  on  my  hands  and  knees  for 
you.     I'll  never  leave  you,  Gerald — never!" 

"My  beautiful  Hester!"  he  said  unsteadily,  and  then 
again,  "Nonsense." 

But,  almost  on  the  moment,  the  man  nurse  returned, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  leave  him,  but  not  without  throb- 
bing promises  of  the  morrow's  return,  and  then  there  took 
place,  down-stairs  In  an  ante-room,  a  long,  a  closeted, 
and  very  private  interview  with  a  surgeon  and  more  red 
tape  and  filing  of  applications.  She  was  so  weak  from 
crying  that  a  nurse  was  called  finally  to  help  her  through 
the  corridors  to  her  car. 


126  BACK   PAY 

Gerald's  left  lung  was  burnt  out,  and  he  had  three, 
possibly  four,  weeks  to  live. 

All  the  way  home,  in  her  tan  limousine  with  the  little 
yellow  curtains,  she  sat  quite  upright,  away  from  the 
upholstery,  crying  down  her  uncovered  face,  but  a  sud- 
den, an  exultant  determination  hardening  in  her  mind. 

That  night,  a  Strang*  conversation  took  place  in  the 
Riverside  Drive  apartment.  She  sat  on  Wheeler's  left 
knee,  toying  with  his  platinum  chain,  a  strained,  a  rather 
terrible  pallor  out  in  her  face,  but  the  sobs  well  under  her 
voice,  and  its  modulation  about  normal.  She  had  been 
talking  for  over  two  hours,  silencing  his  every  interrup- 
tion until  he  had  fallen  quite  still. 

"And — and  that's  all,  Wheeler,"  she  ended  up.  "I've 
told  you  everything.  We  were  never  more  than  just — 
friends — Gerald  and  me.  You  must  take  my  word  for 
it,  because  I  swear  it  before  God." 

"I  take  your  word,  Hester,"  he  said  huskily. 

"And  there  he  lies,  Wheeler,  without — without  any 
eyes  in  his  head.  Just  as  if  they'd  been  burnt  out  by 
irons.  And  he — he  smiles  when  he  talks.  That's  the 
awful  part.  Smiles  like — well,  I  guess  like  the  angel  he 
— he  almost  is.  You  see,  he  says  it's  a  glory  to  carry  the 
wounds  of  his  country.  Just  think,  just  think — that  boy 
to  feel  that,  the  way  he  lies  there!" 

"Poor  boy!     Poor,  poor  boy!" 

"Gerald's  like  that.  So — so  full  of  faith.  And,  Wheeler, 
he  thinks  he's  going  to  get  well  and  lead  a  useful  life  like 
they  teach  the  blind  to  do.  He  reminds  me  of  one  of 
those  Greek  statues  down  at  the  Athens  Cafe.  You 
know — broken.     That's  it;  he's  a  broken  statue." 

"Poor  fellow!  Poor  fellow!  Do  something  for  him. 
Buy  the  finest  fruit  in  the  town  for  him.  Send  a  case 
of  wine.     Two." 

"I — I  think  I  must  be  torn  to  pieces  Inside,  Wheeler, 
the  way  Pve  cried." 

"Poor  little  girl!" 

"Wheeler?" 

"Now,  now,"  he  said;  "taking  it  so  to  heart  won't  do 
no  good.     It's  rotten,  I  know,  but  worrying  won't  help. 


FANNIE    HURST  127 

Got  me  right  upset,  too.  Come;  get  it  off  your  mind. 
Let's  take  a  ride.  Doll  up;  you  look  a  bit  peaked. 
Come  nov/,  and  to-morrow  we'll  buy  out  the  town  for 
him." 

"Wheeler?"  she  said.     "Wheeler?" 

"What?" 

"Don't  look,  Wheeler;  I've  got  something  else  to  ask 
you — something  queer." 

"Now,  now,"  he  said,  his  voice  hardening  but  trying  to 
maintain  a  chiding  note;  "you  know  what  you  promised 
after  the  chinchilla — no  more  this  year  until — " 

"No,  no;  for  God's  sake,  not  that!  It's  still  about 
Gerald." 

"Well?" 

"Wheeler,  he's  only  got  four  weeks  to  live.  Five  at 
the  outside." 

"Now,  now,  girl;  we've  been  all  over  that." 

"He  loves  me,  Wheeler,  Gerald  does." 

"Yes?"— dryly. 

"It  would  be  like  doing  something  decent — the  only 
decent  thing  I've  done  in  all  my  life,  Wheeler,  almost 
like  doing  something  for  the  war,  the  way  these  women 
in  the  pretty  white  caps  have  done,  and  you  know  we — 
we  haven't  turned  a  finger  for  it  except  to — to  gain — if  I 
was  to — to  marry  Gerald  for  those  few  weeks,  Wheeler. 
I  know  it's  a — rotten  sacrifice,  but  I  guess  that's  the  only 
kind  I'm  capable  of  making." 

He  sat  squat,  with  his  knees  spread. 

"You  crazy?"  he  said. 

"It  would  mean,  Wheeler,  his  dying  happy.  He  doesn't 
know  it's  all  up  with  him.  He'd  be  made  happy  for  the 
poor  little  rest  of  his  life.  He  loves  me.  You  see, 
Wheeler,  I  was  his  first — his  only  sweetheart.  I'm  on  a 
pedestal,  he  says,  in  his  dreams.  I  never  told  you — but 
that  boy  was  willing  to  marry  me,  Wheeler,  knowing — 
some — of  the  things  I  am.  He's  always  carried  round  a 
dream  of  me,  you  see — no;  you  wouldn't  see,  but  I've 
been — well,  I  guess  sort  of  a  medallion  that  won't  tarnish 
in  his  heart —  Wheeler,  for  the  boy's  few  weeks  he  has 
left?     Wheeler?" 


128  BACK    PAY 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged !" 

"I'm  not  turning  holy,  Wheeler.  I  am  what  I  am.  But 
that  boy  lying  out  there — I  can't  bear  it!  It  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  with  us — afterward.  You  know 
where  you  stand  with  me  and  for  always,  but  it  would 
mean  the  dying  happy  of  a  boy  who  fought  for  us.  Let 
me  marry  that  boy,  Wheeler.  Let  his  light  go  out  in 
happiness.  Wheeler?  Please,  Wheeler?"  He  would 
not  meet  her  eyes.     "Wheeler?" 

"Go  to  it,  Hester,"  he  said,  coughing  about  in  his  throat 
and  rising  to  walk  away.  "Bring  him  here  and  give  him 
the  fat  of  the  land.  You  can  count  on  me  to  keep  out 
of  the  way.     Go  to  it,"  he  repeated. 

And  so  they  were  married.  Hester  holding  his  hand 
beside  the  hospital  cot,  the  man  nurse  and  doctor  stand- 
ing by,  and  the  chaplain  incanting  the  immemorial  words. 
A  bar  of  sunshine  lay  across  the  bed,  and  Gerald  pro- 
nounced each  "I  will"  in  a  lifted  voice  that  carried  to  the 
four  corners  of  the  little  room.  She  was  allowed  to  stay 
that  night  past  hospital-hours,  and  they  talked  with  the 
dusk  flowing  over  them. 

"Hester,  Hester,"  he  said,  "I  should  have  had  the 
strength  to  hold  out  against  your  making  this  terrible  sac- 
rifice." 

"It's  the  happiest  hour  of  my  life,"  she  said,  kissing 
him. 

"I  feel  well  enough  to  get  up  now,  sweetheart." 

"Gerald,  don't  force.  You've  weeks  ahead  before  you 
are  ready  for  that." 

"But  to-morrow,  dear,  home!  In  whose  car  are  you 
calling  for  me  to-morrow  to  take  me  home?" 

"In  a  friend's,  dearest." 

"Won't  I  be  crowding  up  our  little  apartment?  Describe 
it  again  to  me,  dearest — our  home." 

"It's  so  little,  Gerald.  Three  rooms  and  the  littlest 
babiest  kitchen.  When  you're  once  up,  I'll  teach  its 
every  corner  to  you." 

Tears  seeped  through  the  line  where  his  lids  had  been, 
and  it  was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"I'll   make  it   up  to  you   though,  Hester.      I   know  I 


FANNIE    HURST  129 

should  have  been  strong  enough  to  hold  out  against  your 
marrying  me,  but  I'll  make  it  up.  I've  a  great  scheme; 
a  sort  of  braille  system  of  accountancy — " 

"Please,  Gerald — not  now!" 

"If  only,  Hester,  I  felt  easier  about  the  finances.  Will 
your  savings  stand  the  strain.''  Your  staying  at  home 
from  your  work  this  way — and  then  me — " 

"Gerald  dear,  I've  told  you  so  often — I've  saved  more 
than  we  need." 

"My  girl !" 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  she  said. 

They  moved  him  with  hardly  a  jar  in  an  army  ambu- 
lance, and  with  the  yellow  limousine  riding  alongside  to 
be  of  possible  aid,  and  she  had  the  bed  stripped  of  its 
laces  and  cool  with  linen  for  him,  and  he  sighed  out  when 
they  placed  him  on  it  and  would  not  let  go  her  hand. 

"What  a  feeling  of  space  for  so  little  a  room!" 

"It's  the  open  windows,  love." 

He  lay  back  tiredly. 

"What  sweet  linen!" 

"I  shopped  it  for  you." 

"You,  too — you're  in  linen,  Hester?" 

"A  percale  shirt-waist.     I  shopped  it  for  you,  too." 

"Give  me  your  hand,"  he  said,  and  pressed  a  string 
of  close  kisses  into  its  palm. 

The  simplicity  of  the  outrageous  subterfuge  amazed 
even  her.  She  held  hot-house  grapes  at  two  dollars  a 
pound  to  his  lips,  and  he  ate  them  through  a  smile. 

"Naughty,  extravagant  girl !"  he  said. 

"I  saw  them  on  a  fruit-stand  for  thirty  cents,  and 
couldn't  resist." 

"Never  mind;  I'll  make  it  up  to  you." 

Later,  he  asked  for  braille  books,  turning  his  sightless 
face  toward  her  as  he  studied,  trying  to  concentrate 
through  the  pain  in  his  lung. 

"If  only  you  wouldn't  insist  upon  the  books  awhile  yet, 
dear.     The  doctor  says  it's  too  soon." 

"I  feel  so  strong,  Hester,  with  you  near,  and,  besides, 
I  must  start  the  pot  boiling." 


130  BACK   PAY 

She  kissed  down  Into  the  high  nap  of  his  hair,  softly. 
Evenings,  she  read  to  him  newspaper  accounts  of  his 
fellow  soldiers,  and  the  day  of  the  peace,  for  which  he 
had  paid  so  terribly,  she  rolled  his  bed,  alone,  with  a 
great  tugging  and  straining,  to  the  open  window,  where 
the  wind  from  the  river  could  blow  in  against  him  and 
steamboat  whistles  shoot  up  like  rockets. 

She  was  so  inexpressibly  glad  for  the  peace-day.  Some- 
how, it  seemed  easier  and  less  blackly  futile  to  give  him 
up. 

Of  Wheeler,  for  three  running  weeks  she  had  not  a 
glimpse,  and  then,  one  day,  he  sent  up  a  hamper,  not  a 
box  but  an  actual  trunk  of  roses,  and  she,  in  turn,  sent 
them  up  the  back  way  to  Kitty's  fiat,  not  wanting  even 
their  fragrance  released. 

With  Kitty,  there  were  little  hurried  confabs  each  day 
outside  the  apartment  door  in  the  hallway  before  the  ele- 
vator-shaft. A  veil  of  awe  seemed  to  wrap  the  Drew 
woman. 

"I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head,  Hester.  It's  like  a  fairy- 
story,  and,  in  another  way,  it's  a  scream — Wheeler  stand- 
ing for  this." 

"Sh-h,  Kitty.     His  ears  are  so  sensitive." 
"Quit  shushing  me  every  time  I  open  my  mouth.    Poor 
kid!     Let  me  have  a  look  at  him.     He  wouldn't  know." 
"No!     No!" 

"God,   if   it   wasn't   so   sad,   it   would   be   a   scream — 
Wheeler  footing  the  bills !" 
"Oh— you !     Oh— oh— you !" 

"All  right,  all  right;  don't  take  the  measles  over  it. 
I'm  going.  Here's  some  chicken  broth  I  brought  down. 
Ed  sent  it  up  to  me  from  Sherry's." 

But  Hester  poured  it  into  the  sink  for  some  nameless 
reason,  and  brewed  some  fresh  from  a  fowl  she  tipped  the 
hall-boy  a  dollar  to  go  out  and  purchase. 

She  slept  on  a  cot  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  so  sensitive 
to  his  waking  that  almost  before  he  came  up  to  con- 
sciousness, she  was  at  his  side.  All  day  she  wore  the 
little  white  shirt-waists,  a  starchy  one  fresh  each  morn- 
ing, and  at  night  scratchy  little  unlacy  nightgowns  with 


FANNIE    HURST  131 

long  sleeves  and  high  yokes.  He  liked  to  run  his  hand 
along  the  crispness  of  the  fabric. 

"I  love  you  in  cool  stuff,  Hester.  You're  so  cool  your- 
self, I  always  think  of  you  in  the  little  white  waist  and 
blue  skirt.     You  remember,  dear — Finley's  annual?" 

"I — I'm  going  to  dress  like  that  for  you  always, 
Gerald." 

"I  won't  let  you  be  going  back  to  work  for  long,  sweet- 
heart.    I've  some  plans  up  my  sleeve,  I  have." 

"Yes !     Yes !" 

But  when  the  end  did  come,  it  was  with  as  much  of  a 
shock  as  if  she  had  not  been  for  days  expecting  it.  The 
doctor  had  just  left,  puncturing  his  arm  and  squirting 
into  his  poor  tired  system  a  panacea  for  the  pain.  But 
he  would  not  react  to  it,  fighting  down  the  drowsiness. 

"Hester,"  he  said  suddenly,  and  a  little  weakly,  "lean 
down,  sweetheart,  and   kiss  me — long — long — " 

She  did,  and  it  was  with  the  pressure  of  her  lips  to  his 
that  he  died. 

It  was  about  a  week  after  the  funeral  that  Wheeler 
came  back.  She  was  on  the  chaise  longue  that  had  been 
dragged  out  into  the  parlor,  in  the  webbiest  of  white 
negligees,  a  little  large-eyed,  a  little  subdued,  but  sweet- 
ening the  smile  she  turned  toward  him  by  a  trick  she 
had  of  lifting  the  brows. 

"Hel-lo  Wheeler!"  she  said,  raising  her  cheek  to  be 
kissed. 

He  trailed  his  lips,  but  did  not  seek  her  mouth,  sit- 
ting down  rather  awkwardly  and  in  the  spread-knee'd 
fashion  he  had. 

"Well,  girl— you  all  right?" 

"You  helped,"  she  said. 

"It  gave  me  a  jolt,  too.  I  made  over  twenty-five 
thousand  to  the  Red  Cross  on  the  strength  of  it." 

"Thank  you,  Wheeler." 

"Lord!"  he  said,  rising  and  rubbing  his  hands  together. 
"Give  us  a  couple  of  fingers  to  drink,  honey;  I'm  cotton- 
mouthed." 

She  reached  languidly  for  a  blue-enameled  bell,  lying 


132  BACK   PAY 

back,  with  her  arms  dangling  and  her  smile  out.  Then, 
as  if  realizing  that  the  occasion  must  be  lifted,  turned  her 
face  to  him. 

"Old  bummer!"  she  said,  using  one  of  her  terms  of 
endearment  for  him  and  two-thirds  closing  her  eyes. 
Then  did  he  stoop  and  kiss  her  roundly  on  the  lips. 

For  the  remainder  of  this  tale,  I  could  wish  for  a  pen 
supernally  dipped,  or  for  a  metaphysician's  plating  to  my 
vernacular,  or  for  the  linguistic  patois  of  that  land  off 
somewhere  to  the  west  of  Life.  Or  maybe,  just  a  neurol- 
ogist's chart  of  Hester's  nerve-history  would  help. 

In  any  event,  after  an  evening  of  musical  comedy  and 
of  gelatinous  dancing,  Hester  awoke  at  four  o'clock  the 
next  morning  out  of  an  hour  of  sound  sleep,  leaping  to 
her  knees  there  in  bed  like  a  quick  flame,  her  gesture 
shooting  straight  up  toward  the  jointure  of  wall  and  ceil- 
ing. 

"Gerald !"  she  called,  her  smoky  black  hair  floating 
around  her  and  her  arms  cutting  through  the  room's 
blackness,  "Gerald!"  Suddenly  the  room  was  not  black. 
It  was  light  with  the  Scanciinavian  blondness  of  Gerald, 
the  head  of  him  nebulous  there  above  the  pink-satin 
canopy  of  her  dressing-table  and,  more  than  that,  the 
drained  lakes  of  his  sockets  were  deep  with  eyes.  Yes; 
in  all  their  amazing  blueness,  but  queerly  sharpened  to 
steel  points  that  went  through  Hester  and  through  her 
as  if  bayonets  were  pushing  into  her  breasts  and  her 
breathing. 

"Gerald!"  she  shrieked,  in  one  more  cry  that  curdled 
the  quiet,  and  sat  up  in  bed,  trembling  and  hugging  her- 
self, and  breathing  in  until  her  lips  were  drawn  shudder- 
ingly  against  her  teeth  like  wind-sucked  window-shades. 

"Gerald !"  And  then  the  picture  did  a  sort  of  moving- 
picture  fade-out,  and  black  Lottie  came  running  with  her 
hair  grotesquely  greased  and  flattened  to  take  out  the 
kink,  and  gave  her  a  drink  of  water  with  the  addition 
of  two  drops  from  a  bottle,  and  turned  on  the  night-light 
and  went  back  to  bed. 

The  next  morning,  Hester  carried  about  what  she  called 


FANNIE   HURST  133 

"a  head,"  and,  since  it  was  Wheeler's  day  at  Rosencranz, 
remained  in  bed  until  three  o'clock,  Kitty  curled  at  the 
foot  of  it  the  greater  part  of  the  forenoon. 

"It  was  the  rotten  night  did  me  up.  Dreams —  Ugh 
— dreams!" 

"No  wonder,"  diagnosed  Kitty  sweetly.  "Indigestion 
from  having  your  cake  and  eating  it." 

At  three,  she  dressed  and  called  for  her  car,  driving 
down  to  the  Ivy  Funeral  Rooms,  a  gothic  Thanatopsis, 
set,  with  one  of  those  laughs  up  her  sleeves  New  York  so 
loves  to  indulge  in,  right  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  between 
an  automobile-accessory  shop  and  a  quick-lunch  room. 
Gerald  had  been  buried  from  there  with  simple-flag- 
draped  service  in  the  Gothic  chapel  that  was  protected 
from  the  view  and  roar  of  the  elevated  trains  by  suitably 
stained  windows.  There  was  a  check  in  Hester's  purse 
made  out  for  an  amount  that  corresponded  to  the  state- 
ment she  had  received  from  the  Ivy  Funeral  Rooms. 
And  right  here  again,  for  the  sake  of  your  elucidation,  I 
could  wish  at  least  for  the  neurologist's  chart.  At  the 
very  door  to  the  establishment — with  one  foot  across  the 
threshold,  in  fact — she  paused,  her  face  tilted  toward  the 
corner  where  wall  and  ceiling  met,  and  at  whatever  she 
saw  there,  her  eyes  dilating  widely,  and  her  left  hand 
springing  to  her  bosom  as  if  against  the  incision  of  quick 
steel.  Then,  without  even  entering,  she  rushed  back  to 
her  car  again,  urging  her  chauffeur,  at  the  risk  of  every 
speed-regulation,   homeward. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  purgatorial  weeks  that  were 
soon  to  tell  on  Hester.  They  actually  brought  out  a 
streak  of  gray  through  her  hair,  vvhich  Lottie  promptly 
dyed  and  worked  under  into  the  lower  part  of  her  coiffure. 
For   herself,  Hester  would  have  let  it  remain. 

Wheeler  was  frankly  perplexed.  God  knows  it  was 
bad  enough  to  be  called  upon  to  endure  streaks  of  unrea- 
sonableness at  Rosencranz,  but  Hester  wasn't  there  to 
show  that  side  to  him  if  she  had  it.  To  be  pretty  frank 
about  it,  she  was  well  paid  not  to.  Well  paid !  He'd 
done  his  part.  Ivlore  than  nine  out  of  ten  would  have 
done.     Been    made   a   jay    of,    if   the    truth   was    known. 


134  BACK   PAY 

She  was  a  Christmas-tree  bauble,  and  was  expected  to 
throw  off  holiday  iridescence.     There  were  limits ! 

"You're  off  your  feed,  girl.  Go  off  by  yourself  and 
speed  up." 

"It's  the  nights,  Gerald.  Good  God — I  mean  Wheeler! 
They  kill  me.  I  can't  sleep.  Can't  you  get  a  doctor 
who  will  give  me  stronger  drops  .^  He  doesn't  know  my 
case.  Nerves,  he  calls  it.  It's  the  head.  If  only  I  could 
get  rid  of  this  head!" 

"You  women  and  your  nerves  and  your  heads !  Are 
you  all  alike?  Get  out  and  get  some  exercise.  Keep 
down  your  gasoline  bills  and  it  will  send  your  spirits  up. 
There's  such  a  thing  as  having  it  too  good." 

She  tried  to  meet  him  in  lighter  vein  after  that,  dress- 
ing her  most  bizarrely,  and  greeting  him  one  night  in  a 
batik  gown,  a  new  process  of  dyeing  that  could  be  flam- 
boyant and  narrative  in  design.  This  one,  a  long, 
sinuous  robe  that  enveloped  her  slimness  like  a  flame, 
beginning  down  around  the  train  in  a  sullen  smoke  and 
rushing  up  to  her  face  in  a  burst  of  crimson. 

He  thought  her  so  exquisitely  rare  that  he  was  not 
above  the  poor,  soggy  device  of  drinking  his  dinner-wine 
from  the  cup  of  her  small  crimson  slipper,  and  she 
dangled  on  his  knee  like  the  dangerous  little  flame  she 
none  too  subtly  purported  to  be,  and  he  spanked  her 
quickly  and  softly  across  the  wrists  because  she  was  too 
nervous  to  hold  the  match  steadily  enough  for  his  cigar 
to  take  light,  and  then  kissed  away  all  the  mock  sting. 

But  the  next  morning,  at  the  fateful  hour  four  o'clock, 
and  in  spite  of  four  sleeping-drops,  Lottie  on  the  cot  at 
the  foot  of  her  bed  and  the  night-light  burning,  she  awoke 
on  the  crest  of  such  a  shriek  that  a  stiletto  might  have 
slit  the  silence,  the  end  of  the  sheet  crammed  up  and  into 
her  mouth,  and,  ignoring  all  of  Lottie's  calming,  sat  up 
on  her  knees,  her  streaming  eyes  on  the  jointure  of  wall 
and  ceiling,  where  the  open  accusing  ones  of  Gerald 
looked  down  at  her.  It  was  not  that  they  were  terrible 
eyes.  They  were  full  of  the  sweet  blue,  and  clear  as 
lakes.  It  was  only  that  they  knew.  Those  eyes  knew. 
They  knew!     She  tried  the  device  there  at  four  o'clock 


FANNIE   HURST  135 

in  the  morning  of  tearing  up  the  still  unpaid  check  to  the 
Ivy  Funeral  Rooms,  and  then  she  curled  up  in  bed  with 
her  hand  in  the  negro  maid's,  and  her  face  half  buried 
in  the  pillow. 

"Help  me,  Lottie,"  she  begged;  "help  me!" 

"Law,  pore  child!  Gettin'  the  horrors  every  night 
this  away!  I've  been  through  it  before  with  other  ladies. 
But  I  never  saw  a  case  of  the  sober  horrors  befoh.  Looks 
like  they's  the  worst  of  all.  Go  to  sleep,  child.  I'se 
holdin'." 

You  see,  Lottie  had  looked  in  on  life  where  you  and  I 
might  not.  A  bird's-eye  view  may  be  very,  very  compre- 
hensive, but  a  domestic-eye  view  can  sometimes  be  very, 
very  close. 

And  then,  one  night,  after  Hester  had  beat  her  hands 
down  into  the  mattress  and  implored  Gerald  to  close  his 
accusing  eyes  and  she  had  screamed  and  sobbed  up 
against  the  jointure,  she  sat  up  in  bed,  waiting  for  the 
first  streak  of  dawn  to  show  itself,  railing  at  the  pain  in 
her  head. 

"God,  my  head!  Rub  it,  Lottie.  My  head!  My 
eyes  !     The  back  of  my  neck !" 

The  next  morning,  she  did  what  you  probably  have 
been  expecting  she  would  do.  She  up  and  dressed,  send- 
ing Lottie  to  bed  for  a  needed  rest.  Dressed  herself  in 
the  little  old  blue-serge  suit  that  had  been  hanging  in 
the  very  back  of  a  closet  for  four  years,  with  a  five-  and 
two  ten-dollar  bills  pinned  into  its  pocket,  and  pressed  the 
little  five-dollar  sailor  down  on  the  smooth  winglike 
quality  of  her  hair.  She  looked  smaller,  peculiarly  in- 
describably younger.  She  wrote  Wheeler  a  note,  drop- 
ping it  down  the  mail  chute  in  the  hall,  and  then  came 
back,  looking  about  rather  aimlessly  for  something  she 
might  want  to  pack.  There  was  nothing;  so  she  went 
out  quite  bare  and  simply,  with  all  her  lovely  jewels  in 
the  leather  case  on  the  upper  shelf  of  the  bedroom  closet, 
as  she  had  explained  to  Wheeler  in  the  note. 

That  afternoon,  she  presented  herself  to  Lichtig.  He 
was  again  as  you  would  expect — round-bellied,  and  wore 
his  cigar  up  obliquely  from  one  corner  of  his  mouth.    He 


136  BACK   PAY 

engaged  her  immediately  at  an  increase  of  five  dollars  a 
week,  and  as  she  was  leaving  with  the  promise  to  report 
at  eight-thirty  the  next  morning,  he  pinched  her  cheek, 
she  pulling  away  angrily. 

"None  of  that!" 

"My  mistake,",  he  apologized. 

She  considered  it  promiscuous  and  cheap,  and  you 
know  her  aversion  for  cheapness. 

Then  she  obtained,  after  a  few  forays  in  and  out  of 
brownstone  houses  in  West  Forty-fifth  Street,  one  of 
those  hall  bed-rooms  so  familiar  to  human-interest  stories 
— the  iron-bed,  wash-stand,  and  slop-jar  kind.  There 
was  a  five-dollar  advance  required.  That  left  her  twenty 
dollars. 

She  shopped  a  bit  then  in  an  Eighth  Avenue  depart- 
ment store,  and,  with  the  day  well  on  the  wane,  took  a 
street-car  up  to  the  Ivy  Funeral  Rooms.  This  time,  she 
entered,  but  the  proprietor  did  not  recognize  her  until  she 
explained.  As  you  know,  she  looked  smaller  and  younger, 
and  there  was  no  tan  car  at  the  curb. 

"I  want  to  pay  this  off  by  the  week,"  she  said,  hand- 
ing him  out  the  statement  and  a  much  folded  ten-dollar 
bill.  He  looked  at  her,  surprised.  "Yes,"  she  said,  her 
teeth  biting  off  the  word  in  a  click. 

"Certainly,"  he  replied,  handing  her  out  a  receipt  for 
the  ten. 

"I  will  pay  five  dollars  a  week  hereafter." 

"That  will  stretch  it  out  to  twenty-eight  weeks,"  he 
said,  still  doubtfully. 

"I  can't  help  it;  I  must." 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  "that  will  be  all  right,"  but  look- 
ing puzzled. 

That  night,  she  slept  in  the  hall  bedroom  in  the  Eighth 
Avenue,  machine-stitched  nightgown.  She  dropped  off 
about  midnight,  praying  not  to  awaken  at  four.  But  she 
did — with  a  slight  start,  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  eyes  on  the 
jointure. 

Gerald's  face  was  there,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  open, 
but  the  steel  points  were  gone.  They  were  smiling  eyes. 
They  seemed  to  embrace  her,  to  wash  her  in  their  fluid. 


FANNIE    HURST  137 

All  her  fear  and  the  pain  In  her  head  were  gone.  She 
sat  up,  looking  at  him,  the  tears  streaming  down  over  her 
smile  and  her  lips  moving. 

Then,  sighing  out  like  a  child,  she  lay  back  on  the 
pillow,  turned  over,  and  went  to  sleep. 

And  this  is  the  story  of  Hester  which  so  insisted  to  be 
told.  I  think  she  must  have  wanted  you  to  know.  And 
wanted  Gerald  to  know  that  you  know,  and,  in  the  end, 
I  rather  think  she  wanted  God  to  know. 


Everybody's  Magazine 


"CAB,  SIR?" 

BY 

SAMUEL  HOPKINS  ADAMS 


A 


"CAB,  SIR?"' 
By  SAMUEL  HOPKINS  ADAMS 

REVIEWING  the  facts  candidly,  the  sike  now  at- 
tributes his  part  in  the  crirn£_jto  the  stimulus  of  a 
third  cup  of  tea.  The  first  two  he  took  because  he  was 
lonely.  The  third  he  had,  for  fellowship,  on  invitation 
from  a  gob  and  a  flit  who  perceived  his  condition.  They 
explained  that  they  were  lifelong  friends,  having  orig- 
inally met  last  week  at  a  sing-song  while  waiting  for  their 
final  discharge  papers;  and  why  not  see  New  York  first.' 

The  sike  said  that  he  had  no  place  to  go  short  of  Col- 
lege City,  Missouri.  The  gob,  it  appeared,  had  plenty  of 
places  to  go  in  the  near  vicinage,  but  did  not  wisli  to  re- 
sume his  old  way  of  life  which,  he  hinted,  was  ignomini- 
ous if  not  actually  criminal.  The  flit  had  to  go  to  the 
dental  clinic  in  the  morning,  so  he  didn't  care;  he  was 
feeling  reckless  and  suicidal.  The  hour  was  that  of  slack- 
tide  on  Broadway,  when  the  chorus  is  just  opening  the 
second  act. 

"What  is  that  which  it  is  that  we  make  to  do  this  even- 
ing?" inquired  the  gob,  as  they  emerged  from  the  War 
Camp  Community  Service  Club  on  Twenty-seventh 
Street. 

Having  taken  the  cantonment  course  in  Uncle  Sam's 
French  Idioms  for  the  Idiotic,  the  others  comprehended 
at  once. 

"Would  a  bus  ride  be  a  good  start?"  suggested  the  sike. 

"Take  a  walk  and  get  the  kinks  out  of  us,"  amended 
the  flit  who  still   suflfered   from  transport   cramp. 

"What-ho  about  a  roof-show?"  queried  the  gob. 

Madison    Square    Garden    loomed    flatly    beside    them 

■   ^  Copyright  by  Everybody's  Magazine. 


142  "CAB,  SIR?" 

while  they  were  still  debating  it  by  the  ambulant  method. 
A  shaft  of  light  from  a  side  exit  fell  across  their  path. 
The  flit  blinked  into  the  aperture  and  withdrew  his 
tongue  from  his  most  peevish  tooth  for  the  purpose  of 
remarking:  "Whoa,  Dobbin!" 

"It's  a  tank,"  observed  the  sike,  following  his  gaze. 
"What  does  the  sign  say?"  He  pointed  to  a  placard, 
pendent  from  the  creature's  neck. 

"  'To  be  returned,' "  read  the  gob. 

"To  return  it,  you  first  got  to  take  it  out,"  argued  the 
flit.  "It  spoke  just  in  time.  Maudie,  I'm  your  little  re- 
turn ticket." 

"You !"  said  the  gob  incredulously.  "Where  do  you 
come  in?     Can  you  run  that  thing?" 

"I  can  run  anything  that  drinks  gasoline." 

"It  looks  like  Providence  by  special  arrangement," 
observed  the  gob.     "What  do  you  say.  Buddy?" 

"I  told  you  I  was  for  a  bus  ride,"  returned  the  sike 
under  the  influence  of  the  third  cup  of  tea. 

"D'you  reckon  this  reptile's  got  a  keeper?"  asked  the 
flit.  He  entered  the  passageway  and  looked  about,  but 
found  no  one.  "Or  a  mouth?"  he  proceeded.  "We've 
got  to  persuade  it  to  swallow  us.  Hey,  gob;  you're 
tender  and  juicy.     Tackle  its  whiskers." 

"Those  aren't  whiskers.  Those  are  machine  guns.  Hi! 
Eureka!  Here's  the  door  with  'welcome'  on  the  mat." 
At  his  touch  a  panel  at  the  front  slowly  unfolded  out- 
ward, displaying  a  lighted  interior. 

"Who'll  join  me  in  the  Jonah  Club?"  invited  the  flit, 
plunging  down  the  wide  gullet.  "It's  my  idea  we'd  better 
get  moving  before  our  little  whale  gets  to  whinnying  and 
raises  its  master.  All  aboard  that's  going  aboard.  Pub- 
lic Library,  Eagle  Hotel,  Soldier's  Monument  and  way 
stations  to  the  Guard-House!" 

The  others  clambered  into  the  monster's  interior.  Its 
mouth  closed  after  them. 

"Now,  I  hope  the  dum  thing  responds  to  gentle  treat- 
ment," the  flit  said.  "I  see  how  she  starts,  but  I  gotta 
take  a  chance  on  how  she  steers.  Are  you  ready?  Grab 
and  stick;  she  may  buck.     Go!" 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  143 

He  did  something  intricate  and  skilled  to  some  levers. 
With  a  noise  as  of  a  boiler-shop  attacked  by  convulsions, 
the  tank  moved  majestically  forth  and,  after  a  moment 
of  doubt,  which  nearly  cost  a  taxi  its  life,  turned  to  the 
left  and  the  bright  lights.     The  voyage  had  begun. 

Here,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  have  been  living, 
since  the  war  began,  a  retired  life  in  Tierra  del  Fuego  or 
Spitzbergen,  it  may  be  well  to  explain  the  terms  of  the 
fellowship.  A  sike  is  a  private  of  the  Psychological  Di- 
vision of  the  Army  Medical  Corps.  Morale  is  his  special 
concern;  he  is  the  man  who  keeps  things  stirring  in  camp 
when  it  has  rained  for  three  solid  weeks  and  the  mail  has 
gone  wrong  and  war  is  all  that  Sherman  said  of  it  and 
more.  He  is  usually  a  college  professor  who  has  seen  a 
great  light.  This  one  was,  and  had.  His  name  is  Fol- 
lansbee  James.  A  flit  is  a  flying  and  prying  person  who 
snoops  about  in  an  airplane  of  low  elevation  and  man- 
ners, poking  his  nose  into  matters  which  it  is  undesir- 
able that  he  should  know.  Such  is  the  shamelessness  of 
our  Government  that  our  flit,  Frederick  Slayter  by  name, 
had  actually  been  decorated  for  his  ill-bred  performances. 
A  gob  is,  of  course — though  nobody  knows  why — an  able 
seaman.  Mr.  "Chaw"  Veeder  was  unusually  able.  He 
had  other  names,  but  they  had  vanished  owing  to  his 
propensity  for  conserving  a  plug  of  tobacco  unobtrusively 
in  his  cheek.  There  is  a  deal  of  hidden  vice  in  our  Navy. 
Having  thus  satisfied,  I  trust,  inquiring  minds  of  a  scien- 
tific and  philological  bent,  I  will  now  return  to  the  delib- 
erate and  uproarious  conveyance  wherein  I  have  left  the 
trio. 

Bhoong  -  barrang  -  whroo  -  00  -  00m  -  prrrrawng  - 
bomp  -  clink  -  whang  -  oomble  -  ga.wmm\e-B 00 M !  The 
tank  proceeded  westward  on  Twenty-seventh  Street  at 
a  breakneck  pace  of  three  miles  an  hour.  Windows  flew 
up.  Pajama-clad  figures,  and  others  more  frilly,  ap- 
peared therein,  making  somnolent  and  wrathful  gestures. 
Scandalized  inhabitants  rushed  out  of  doorways  and 
rushed  in  again,  for  the  tank  was  steering  wildly.  The 
gob  funneled  his  hands  toward  the  flit. 

"Where  you  going?"  he  bellowed  above  the  riot. 


144  "CAB,  SIR?" 

The  answer  came  back  faint  and  fragmentary,  "Don't 
—  how  — 'amthing  —  steers." 

In  a  spirit  of  misplaced  helpfulness,  the  gob  seized 
a  lever  and  pulled  it.  Straightway  the  tank  paused, 
turned  on  its  heel,  executed  a  couple  of  airy  pirouettes 
and  with  a  metallic  roar  rushed  up  on  the  sidewalk  and 
totally  obliterated  three  garbage-cans  which  had  been 
playing  the  extrahazardous  role  of  innocent  bystanders. 
It  then  cut  obliquely  across  the  corner,  gently  but  firmly 
removed  an  electric-light  pole  which  sought  to  stay  its 
pace,  debouched  into  Fifth  Avenue,  and  pointing  its  nose 
up-town,  resumed  its  sedate  progress. 

"Don't — excite — agin,"  bawled  the  flit  at  the  wheel 
reprovingly  to  the  gob.  "Flighty — little — whiffet.  Let- 
ter— own — way." 

Ensconced  at  a  peep-hole  the  sike  now  delivered  tid- 
ings in  a  strained  yell,  "Cavalry  attack." 

The  flit  threw  off  the  power  so  suddenly  that  his  two 
companions  came  and  sat  on  his  neck.  Amidst  the  en- 
suing peace  the  night  roar  of  Fifth  Avenue  was  as  the 
splash  of  ripples  upon  a  gently  sloping  beach. 

"Get  off  me!"  protested  the  engineer.  "I'm  going  to 
chin  with  the  law." 

He  opened  the  door  and  a  policeman's  head  appeared. 
At  the  same  moment  the  sike  retired  and  was  dimly  seen 
behind  a  stanchion  busily  writing  what  the  gob  surmised 
to  be  a  long  farewell  to  home  and  loved  ones.  The  cop 
opened  a  mouth  upon  which  lurked  the  suspicion  of  a 
grin.  ^ 

"Where  are  you  boys  trundling  your  little  alarm-clock 
on  wheels?"  he  inquired. 

"Back  to  quarters,"  replied  the  flit  glibly. 

The  officer's  glance  fell  upon  the  spread  wings  of  the 
flit's  service.  "Looka-here,"  he  observed.  "You  belong 
to  the  flying,  don't  you?   You're  in  the  wrong  kind  of  bus." 

"I'm  goin'  to  fly  this,"  asserted  the  operator  blandly, 
"as  soon  as  we  come  to  a  good  take-off." 

"Sure!"  agreed  the  cop.  "I'd  like  to  go  up  with  you. 
Just  the  same,  I'll  take  a  look  at  your  papers.    Hand  'em 


out." 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  145 

The  flit's  hand  started  to  his  head  to  scratch  for  ideas, 
when  it  was  arrested  midway  by  another  hand  pressing 
into  it  a  sheet  of  paper.  A  whisper  from  the  sike  did  the 
rest.  The  document  was  duly  presented  to  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  civil  law  who  read  therein,  under  the 
insignium  of  the  War  Camp  Community  Service,  which 
looks  very  official  and  authoritative,  if  not  too  closely 
scrutinized,  that  Corporal  F.  Slayter  of  the  Aero  Service, 
Able  Seaman  Veeder,  and  Private  James  of  the  Sanitary 
Corps,  U.  S.  A.,  were  specially  detailed  to  operate  Tractor 
Tank  No.  13  in  such  highways  of  New  York  City  as  they 
might  select  for  demonstration  purposes. 

"That  gets  by  with  me,"  announced  the  officer.  "And 
I'll  pass  the  word  up  the  Avenue.  But  look  out  for  the 
side-streets.  Some  of  the  cops  on  duty  there  are  mean, 
suspicious  guys  that  wouldn't  be  above  spoiling  a  pleas- 
ant evening." 

"Jesse  James,"  observed  the  flit,  turning  admiringly  to 
the  sike,  after  the  obstacle  to  progress  had  withdrawn, 
"as  a  psychologist  you're  a  high-class  forger.  That  touch 
about  'demonstration  purposes' — that's  bad,  I  guess !  We 
could  swim  the  tank  in  Central  Park  Reservoir  or  shin 
it  up  the  Obelisk  on  the  strength  of  that." 

"And  to  think,"  sighed  the  sike,  "that  next  week  I'll  be 
burbling"  about  ethics  in  a  stuffy  classroom." 

"Maybe  not,"  returned  the  gob.  "If  Slayter  does  any 
more  of  his  fancy  evolutions,  you  may  be  in  the  hospital." 

"Oh,  I've  got  her  now,"  asseverated  the  helmsman  con- 
fidently, starting  up  the  machinery.  " — levers,"  he  yelled, 
"control-caterpillars.  Pull — right — and — "  He  did  so, 
and  the  tank,  executing  a  right  about  face,  chased  a  hor- 
rified limousine  half-way  up  a  flight  of  brownstone  steps. 
"Come  back!"  vociferated  the  exasperated  flit,  and  hauled 
the  left  lever  with  such  telling  effect  that  (so  the  gob 
and  the  sike  solemnly  declare)  the  Waldorf-Astoria 
leaped  a  foot  from  its  foundations  and  then  escaped  an- 
nihilation only  by  a  fraction  of  an  Inch. 

"For  Mike's  sake!"  howled  the  gob.  "Stick  to  the 
straight-and-narrow." 

They  lurched  back  into  the  main  current,  with  a  noise 


146  "CAB,  SIR?" 

as  of  cosmic  dissolution,  and  the  traffic  broke  and  fled 
before  their  measured  progress.  As  they  went,  there 
came  from  the  rear  of  the  interior  a  sound  faint,  far- 
away, and  vague  like  the  plaint  of  a  discouraged  cricket. 
It  was  the  sike  singing: 

"We  don't  know  where  we're  going 
But  we're  on — our — way." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  the  flit,  shutting  off.  "Where 
are  we  going  .^" 

"Rubbernecking,"  suggested  the  gob. 

"I've  got  an  idea,"  offered  the  sike.  "If  the  captain  of 
this  buoyant  craft  could  steer  around  a  corner — " 

"I  can  steer  around  any  number  of  corners,"  asserted 
the  flit  with  a  shade  of  offense  in  his  tone. 

"Simultaneously,"  added  the  gob. 

"Looka-here,  Chaw!"  cried  the  operator  hotly.  "If 
you  don't  like  the  way  I  run  this  bus — " 

"Calm  yourself,  corporal,"  adjured  the  sike,  "and  tell 
me,  do  you  think  you  could  negotiate  the  perilous  straits 
that  lead  to  the  stage  door  of  that  sprightly  ragtime 
operetta,  taken  from  the  French  without  opposition  on 
their  part  and  entitled  'Cherchez  la  Chicken'?  I  have  im- 
portant business  there." 

"Cutie  in  the  chorus,"  surmised  the  flit,  looking  pained 
and  moral.  "Oh,  Perfessorl  I  bid  for  an  introduction. 
We're  off!" 

Cautiously  manipulating  the  controls,  the  chauffeur 
contrived  to  achieve  the  turn  into  the  side  street  with  no 
incident  or  accident  other  than  the  conversion  of  a  too 
torpid  fruit-stand  into  a  mixture  of  wood-pulp  and  citrus 
juices,  the  proprietor  barely  escaping  with  his  life.  The 
last  act  of  "Cherchez  la  Chicken"  had  reached  that  point 
of  delicate  and  original  humor  where  the  comedian,  seated 
in  a  cuUard  pie,  sings  a  farewell  to  his  mother-in-law 
while  the  chorus  dances,  when  the  side-alley  which  leads 
up  to  the  stage  burst  into  thunderous  reverberations. 
There  are  numerous  exits  from  the  place — It  Is  the  one 
redeeming  virtue  of  the  show — and  all  of  them  promptly 
jammed.     The   comedian   arose   from  the   pie.     The   so- 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS   ADAMS  147 

prano  fainted.  The  chorus  dispersed.  The  management, 
wringing  its  already  overringed  hands,  rushed  out  into 
the  alley,  now  being  patrolled  by  the  tank,  back,  and 
forth,  amidst  horrible  echoes. 

"Go  away!"  he  shrieked.  "What  you  want?  Shut 
your  noise." 

The  monster  fell  silent.  From  the  orifice  which  should 
have  been  its  mouth,  the  serious  face  of  the  sike  emerged. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "last  night  I  attended  your  perform- 
ance." 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  the  manager.  "You  spoil 
my  show!" 

"Four  days'  pay  you  mulcted  me.  And  you  seated  me 
behind  a  pillar." 

"Tell  your  troubles  to  the  box-office,"  retorted  the 
manager  brutally.     "I  ain't  inter — " 

"I  willingly  concede,"  continued  the  sike  calmly,  "that 
the  pillar  was  preferable,  from  any  view-point,  to  the  per- 
formance.    But  I  want  my  four  dollars  back." 

"A  fat  chance!"  retorted  the  manager. 

"Half  speed  ahead,  if  you  please,"  requested  the  sike. 

"Phsrang  -  bang  -  guzzoom  -  wurrong  -  kong-hong- 
whang!"  clamored  the  monster,  advancing  upon  the  man- 
ager. 

"Yi-yl-hi !  Whoo-00-ee-ee-ee !"  sounded  in  piercing 
antiphony  from  within,  where  the  soprano  was  having 
hysterics. 

From  the  fourth  rung  of  the  fire-escape  ladder  the 
manager  waved  surrender  with  a  roll  of  bills.  "Black- 
mail !"  he  moaned  as  the  sike  selected  a  five  and  returned 
a  dollar.     "Please  go  away  quietly." 

The  sike,  turning,  was  intercepted  by  a  small,  fattish 
gentleman  in  evening  clothes. 

"On  behalf  of  self  and  friend,"  said  the  man,  "I  thank 
you." 

"You  are  attending  the  performance?"  inquired  the 
sike  politely. 

"I  am.  Less  fortunate  than  yourself  I  did  not  draw 
a  pillar.  As  for  my  friend,  whom  I  was  seeking  to  dis- 
tract from  a  depression  of  the  soul,  he  insulted  me  and 


148  "CAB,  SIR?" 

fled.  He  is  now  doubtless  wandering  about  the  city,  a 
prey  to  unrelieved  melancholy." 

"What's  biting  your  friend.^"  queried  the  flit,  project- 
ing an  interested  face  into  the  dialogue. 

The  stranger  accepted  the  interrogation  in  the  spirit 
of  metaphor  in  which  it  was  ofl'ered.  "Woman,"  he 
stated  succinctly.  "If  you  should  happen  to  encounter 
six-foot  two  of  correctly  attired  manhood  baying  the 
moon  on  a  street  corner,  that  is  him.  Or,  if  not  him,  he. 
Be  kind  to  him,  address  him  as  Reuben  Renssalaer  Watts, 
and  play  him  your  little  anvil  chorus.  It  might  cheer 
him  up.  I  return  to  my  martyrdom."  He  saluted  and 
retired. 

In  deference  to  the  manager's  entreaty,  the  tank  backed 
out  discreetly,  making  hardly  more  commotion  than  the 
average  railway  collision,  and  retired  along  Forty-fourth 
Street  toward  the  Avenue.  It  roused  a  corpulent  and 
fluffy  dog,  lolling  richly  in  a  waiting  motor-car,  who 
leaped  out  through  the  window  with  terrifying  growls, 
and  undertook  to  harry  it,  performing  just  in  front  of 
the  left  caterpillar  that  progressive  three-legged  canine 
dance  familiar  to  all  motorists.  But  a  tank  is  not  a 
motor-car.  The  fluffy  dog  conceived  a  misplaced  con- 
tempt for  its  speed.  He  loitered  on  the  way.  There  was 
a  surprised  and  pained  exclamation  in  the  canine  lan- 
guage, and  the  fluffy  dog,  ceasing  to  exist  in  the  custom- 
ary three  dimensions,  passed  to  the  fourth,  leaving  as  a 
souvenir  only  the  first  and  second — to  wit,  length  and 
breadth — upon  the  asphalt.  He  that  so  lately  had  been 
a  beribboned  and  pampered  darling  was  now  as  the 
shadow  of  a  dream,  a  breath  upon  glass,  a  highly  im- 
pressionistic silhouette  limned  against  the  unsympathetic 
pavement,  above  which  a  fat  blond  lady  tore  her  costly 
hair,  uttering  tragic  and  vengeful  cries.  Hastily  checking 
the  juggernaut,  the  flit  descended,  and  was  promptly  ad- 
dressed as  a  murderer  by  the  blond  lady.  The  gob  came 
to  the  rescue,  and  learned  something  to  his  disadvantage 
and  that  of  his  parentage.  Then  the  sike  tactlessly 
offered  his  hard-wrung  four  dollars  in  reparation.  Him 
she  smote  upon  the  ear  with  violence,  and  after  one  in- 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  149 

effectual  attempt  to  scrape  Pettie  from  the  bosom  of 
Mother  Earth  retired,  wailing,  to  her  car,  where  she 
ordered  the  chauffeur  to  take  her  to  her  lawyer. 

"And  to  think,"  murmured  the  sike,  tenderly  caressing 
the  spot  where  the  assault  had  taken  place,  "that  next 
month  I'll  be  instilling  moral  precepts  into  the  minds  of 
the  rising  generation.     Such  is  life!" 

"This  is  where  we  oil  up,"  announced  the  flit,  and,  hav- 
ing herded  his  passengers  in,  went  at  it. 

The  delay  was  untimely.  Hardly  had  the  tank,  re- 
freshed and  lubricated,  resumed  its  way,  when  above  the 
uproar  was  heard  a  sharp  "ping!"     It  was  twice  repeated. 

"Somebody  applying  for  admittance,"  surmised  the 
sike,  in  a  well-attuned  howl. 

The  gob  applied  his  eye  to  a  rear  peep-hole.  "It's 
one  of  those  side-street  cops;  the  bad  ones  our  friend 
down  the  Avenue  told  us  about.     He's  shooting  at  us." 

"A  hold-up,"  observed  the  flit.  He  stopped  the  engine, 
just  as  a  fourth  bullet,  deflected  from  the  upper  armor, 
crashed  through  a  brightly  illuminated  second-story  win- 
dow. There  was  the  sound  of  a  meeting  adjourning  sine 
die,  and  an  oratorically-garbed  gentleman,  thrusting  his 
head  out  of  an  upper  window,  sounded  the  alarum, 
"Bolshez^^^ki !  Bolshezr^rki!"  in  a  melancholy  and  mo- 
notonous shriek. 

The  pursuing  policeman  rushed  around  to  the  front  of 
the  tank.  "Lady  says  you  killed  her  dog,"  he  announced. 
"Open  up." 

The  flit  obligingly  opened  the  door  to  explain.  Straight- 
way the  oflicer's  gun  was  brought  to  bear  upon  his  head. 
"Now,  you  stay  put,"  came  the  grim  order.  The  flit 
stayed. 

But  not  for  long.  Acting,  apparently,  quite  on  its  own 
initiative,  the  machine  gun  of  the  forward  turret  deliber- 
ately and  noiselessly  swung  about  until  it  pointed  accu- 
rately at  the  third  button,  counting  upward,  of  the  police- 
man's tunic.  It  is  very  disconcerting  to  have  a  machine 
gun  aim  itself  at  the  pit  of  one's  stomach,  particularly 
when  there  is  no  evidence  as  to  whether  it  is  loaded  or 
not.     And  a  machine  gun  always  looks  loaded. 


ISO  "CAB,  SIR?" 

The  cop  blinked  and  wavered.  A  solemn  voice  emerged 
from  the  hollow  interior: 

"  'Who  touches  a   hair  of  yon    red  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!    March  on !'  he  said." 

"Whaddye  mean,  'red  head'?"  indignantly  demanded 
the  flit,  who  was  sensitive  on  the  subject;  and  he  ducked 
inside  seeking  explanation. 

The  gob  immediately  pulled-to  the  steel  door.  "We 
will  now  parley,"  he  announced. 

The  officer  took  off  his  helmet  and  fanned  a  wrinkled 
brow.  "You  gotta  keep  off  this  street,"  he  said,  but  with- 
out conviction. 

"Why?"  demanded  the  gob. 

"You're  a  truck,"  said  the  cop. 

"You're  another,"  retorted  the  flit  hotly.  "We're  a 
pleasure-car;  that's  what  we  are!" 

"Well,  you're  a  heavy  traffic,  anyway,"  argued  the  cop. 
"You  got  no  right  here." 

"Lightest  tank  in  the  service,"  declared  the  gob.  "Less 
than  six  tons  on  the  hoof.  Stripped  dovv^'n  for  speed,  in 
light  marching  accouterment  with  one  day's  ammunition 
and  a  marked-down  meal  ticket,  we're  only — " 

"For  Gawd's  sake!"  broke  in  the  harassed  officer;  "git 
off  my  beat  before  I  report  yer,  if  I  can  think  of  some- 
thin'  to  report  that  the  Cap  would  believe." 

Thus  delivered  from  the  Philistines,  the  equipage  pro- 
ceeded, amid  the  wonder  and  consternation  of  an  ear- 
smitten  public.  But  there  was  one  who  paid  no  tribute 
of  notice  to  its  thunderous  progress.  He  stood  on  the 
corner  of  Fifth  Avenue,  and  gazed  into  vacancy.  The 
gleam  of  his  candid  shirt-front  attracted  the  eye  of  the 
gob,  who  was  acting  as  lookout. 

"Lighthouse  off  the  port  bow,"  he  informed  the 
chauffeur.  "Seems  to  be  deserted.  Run  alongside;  I  fain 
would  hail  it." 

The  tank,  after  a  preliminary  wobble,  drew  up,  facing 
the  abstracted  individual.  He  deigned  to  droop  an  un- 
interested eye  at  it,  and  straightway  resumed  his  contem- 
plation of  nothingness.  The  gob  semi-emerging  from  the 
tank's  door,  addressed  him. 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  151 

"Cab,  sir?" 

"Eh?     What?"  said  the  other  vaguely. 

"Taxi,  sir?  Fine  night  for  a  ride,"  said  the  gob  per- 
suasively. 

"Certainly,"  assented  the  bystander  with  the  air  of  one 
who  welcomes  any  diversion,  however  slight.  He  stepped 
inside. 

"Where  to,  sir?" 

The  fare  considered.  "Eight-seventy-seven  Park  Ave- 
nue," he  said  at  length. 

"What  for?"  interposed  the  flit  with  suspicion. 

"To  make  a  polite  and  formal  call  on  a  young  lady." 

"Look  at  the  time,"  protested  the  flit.  "Won't  she  be 
asleep?" 

"Not  after  little  Pussyfoot  enters  the  block,"  said  the 
fare  with  conviction.  "Besides  that — have  I  hired  this 
hack  or  haven't  L^" 

"You  sure  have,"  confirmed  the  gob.  "Montmorency, 
behave!"  he  admonished  the  flit.  "We  are  about  to  go 
into  Society.  I  can  tell  it  by  the  address.  By  the  left 
wheel,  hrrumph!" 

"One  moment,"  said  the  passenger.  "It  is  my  duty  to 
tell  you  that  Bingle  Foxley  will  be  coming  down  the  Ave- 
nue drunk  and  chiefly  on  the  wrong  side,  about  this 
hour." 

"Who's  he?"  demanded  the  chauflfcur. 

"The  Demon  Motorist.  Trafllic  rules  are  a  red  rag  to 
him.  As  a  cousin  of  the  Big  Chief  he's  immune  from 
arrest,  and  gets  a  clear  path." 

"What's  the  big  idea?"  demanded  the  flit. 

"Just  so  that  you  can  slide  out  the  way  when  you  hear 
his   siren,"   returned  the   fare,   with   apparent   innocence. 

The  flit  grinned.  "Ick  hobby  dick,  Steefen,  as  we  say 
in  Coblenz,"  he  observed.     "We're  off." 

The  Fifth  Avenue  trafllic  obligingly  made  way  again. 
After  essaying  several  polite  and  casual  observations  in 
a  stentorian  tone,  with  the  effect  of  a  microbe's  whisper, 
the   passenger  gathered   together   his   vocal   powers,   and 
stuck  his  voice  into  the  gob's  ear. 


152  "CAB,  SIR?" 

"I  want  to  explain.  I'm  going  to  let  you  into  a  little 
SECRET,"  he  bellowed  into  a  suddenly  developed  stillness, 
consequent  upon  the  flit's  shutting  off  power  at  a  crowded 
corner. 

"One  little  tone  louder,"  suggested  the  gob,  "and  you'll 
let  in  South  Norwalk  and  the  Oranges." 

"Let  me  explain  to  you  all,"  said  the  passenger  while 
the  gathering  crowd   outside   passed   the   word   that  the 
tank  was  conveying  a  violently  mad  German  spy  to  the 
asylum.     "I'm  very  much  interested  in — " 

"Not  me!"  expostulated  the  flit.  "The  last  guy  in  a 
dress  suit  that  explained  what  he  was  very  much  inter- 
ested in,  got  me  very  much  interested  too,  and  stung  me 
four  months'  pay  for  four  cents'  worth  of  phony  stock." 

"This  is  a  young  lady,"  said  the  other,  with  dignity. 
"She  objects  to  me  because  she  says  I  am  too  proper  and 
conventional  to  be  really  human." 

"Are  you?"  inquired  the  sike  with  interest. 

"Before  the  war,  possibly.     I  admit  it." 

"And  the  war  cured  you?" 

"Judge  for  yourself.  The  third  day  of  the  Argonne 
debate  I  nearly  got  court-martialed  for  biting  a  chunk  out 
of  my  captain's  ear.  It  was  dark,  and  I  thought  when 
we  came  together  after  the  charge  and  he  tried  to  gouge 
my  left  eye  out,  that  he  was  a  Fritzie.  Now  I  put  it  to 
you  as  pals,  is  that  overrefined  and  finicky?" 

"Pals  is  right,"  stated  the  flit  heartily,  "if  you  was  at 
Argonne  Woods.     And  as  man  to  man  and  one  having 
experience,   I'd  advise  you  to  handle  her  likewise.     Not 
bite  her  ear  off,  you  get  me?     But  join  the  tanks   and 
treat  'em  rough." 

"Precisely  why  I  hired  this  cab." 

"So  woman  is  your  trouble,"  observed  the  sike.  "I 
salute  you,  J\Ir.   Reuben  Renssalaer  Watts." 

"The  devil  you  do!"  retorted  that  gentleman.  "When 
did  you  graduate  into  the  Intelligence  Department?  Or 
have  I  met  you  in  a  previous  existence?" 

"Neither.  It  is  quite  simple,"  began  the  sike,  when  a 
swelling,  soaring,  blare  from  up  the  Avenue  cut  him  short. 

"Mr.  Foxley  requests  the  courtesy  of  a  clear  path," 
said  Mr.  Watts. 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  153 

"Sure,"  remarked  the  flit  between  his  teeth.  "Sic  'em, 
Maudie!" 

Gathering  speed,  the  tank  proceeded  to  weave  and 
writhe  across  the  roadway  in  a  manner  suggestive  of  a 
beetle  with  the  stomach-ache.  Hoots,  rude,  imperative 
and  monitory,  sounded  from  ahead.  A  huge  green  car 
manned  by  a  huge  red  youth  came  rushing  down  upon 
them.  At  sight  of  the  tank,  the  car  emitted  a  subH- 
mated  yawp  of  surprise  and  horror  followed  by  penetrat- 
ing shrieks  as  the  brakes  bit  in,  the  youth  uttered  a  whoop 
of  desperation,  the  outfit  hit  the  unmoved  tank  slant- 
wise, skimmed  across  the  sidewalk  on  two  wheels  and 
sought  cover  in  a  window  placarded  "Special  Bargains  in 
Lingerie"  whence  presently  emerged  the  almost  total  ruin 
of  Mr.  Foxley  draped  pinkly  in  a  chemise.  It  beat  the 
air  with  frenzied  hands,  yelled  feebly,  and  disappeared 
around  the  corner  in  the  direction  of  its  club.  Revivified 
later  (though  not  by  the  usual  agencies,  which  he  reso- 
lutely refused,  to  the  alarm  of  his  fellows),  Mr.  Foxley 
related  how,  while  driving  quietly  down  the  Avenue  he 
had  been  beset  by  a  mud-turtle  in  armor.  A  very  large, 
ferocious,  prehistoric  mud-turtle,  waving  an  American 
flag,  which  without  provocation  had  attacked  his  un- 
offending car,  bitten  oflF  its  two  front  wheels  and  chased 
it  through  a  plate-glass  window.  And  as  for  him,  he 
wouldn't  care  if  July  first  came  to-morrow!  He  was  off"  it! 

"Where  do  they  come  from  and  why  did  they  let  'em 
out?"  demanded  Mr.  Foxley  passionately. 

The  maligned  tank,  passing  upon  its  sentimental  quest, 
was  now  spreading  the  echoes  of  Bedlam  through  peace- 
ful Park  Avenue.  At  number  cight-sevcnty-seven,  the 
equipage  stopped.  The  clamor  didn't.  A  surprised  and 
extremely  attractive  face  beneath  the  cap  of  the  National 
League  for  Woman's  Service  Motor  Corps  appeared  at  a 
third-floor  window. 

"Shut  off!  Shut  off!"  yelled  Reuben  Rcnssalaer  Watts. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  her." 

"Can't,"  bellowed  the  flit.     "She's  jammed." 

The  face  at  the  window  became  indignant.  It  made 
urgent  gestures  like  a  policeman. 


154  "CAB,  SIR?" 

"The  lady  wants  us  to  move  on,"  the  gob  informed  the 
perspiring  Mr.  Watts. 

Out  upon  the  sidewalk  stepped  the  sike.  He  faced  the 
lovely  and  indignant  apparition  overhead  and  squared  his 
manly  form.  With  his  right  hand  he  majestically  indi- 
cated the  zenith;  his  left  he  placed  tenderly  upon  the  pit 
of  his  stomach.  Immediately  he  thrust  his  left  north- 
northeast  and  started  a  pivot-blow  with  the  other.  He 
then  boxed  the  compass  in  swift,  successive  two-arm 
movements.  The  ornament  of  the  window  nodded  and 
disappeared. 

"See  here!"  said  Mr.  Watts.  "Do  you  knotv  that 
lady?" 

"I  do  not,"  returned  the  sike,  "though  I  live  in  hopes." 

"Then  why  the  convulsions?"  demanded,  Mr.  Watts 
severely. 

"Semaphoring,  my  dear  sir.  I  simply  wigwagged  the 
lady  that  if  she  would  descend  to  Mother  Earth,  a  com- 
munication of  semi-official  import  having  a  vital  bearing 
on  her  prospects  in  life  would  be  made  to  her.  Or  words 
to  that  effect,"  said  the  sike.     "The  rest  is  up  to  you." 

The  final  observation  might  well  have  been  addressed 
to  the  Mayor  of  New  Rochelle,  as,  coincident  with  its 
utterance  the  chauffeur  had  stilled  his  engine.  He  joined 
the  sidewalk  group,  followed  by  the  gob.  The  girl 
emerged. 

"Is  it  an  ambulance  job?"  she  asked  professionally. 

"No,  madam,"  answered  the  sike. 

"Then  why  did  you  S.  O.  S.  me?" 

Mr.     Reuben     Renssalaer     Watts     stepped     forward. 
"Renny!"  she  exclaimed  and  turned  to  a  pink  so  delicate 
and  bewitching  that  the  gob  hastily  and  surreptitiously 
extracted  his  beloved  quid  and  tossed  it  under  the  iron 
monster, 

'A  social  call,"  said  that  gentleman.  "Good  evening, 
Carey."  He  stepped  forward  and  with  nonchalance  and 
promptitude  kissed  the  newcomer  fair  and  full  upon  the 
lips. 

"Renny!"  gasped  the  girl;  and  the  pink  deepened  to  a 
fiery  red.     "Wh-Wh-Wnst — how — are  you   crazy?" 


SAMUEL   HOPKINS    ADAMS  155 

"I've  joined  the  tanks,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Watts  urbanely. 
"  'Treat  'em  rough'  is  our  motto.  Come  and  have  a  joy- 
ride  on  me." 

The  girl  recovered  herself.  "Who  are  these  gentle- 
men.'^ 

"Hanged  if  I  know.  I  hired  the  crew  with  the  ship 
and  they  are  now  my  fellow  piratical  voyagers  on  faerie 
seas  forlorn.     Fellows,  this  is  Miss  Carey  Vail." 

"Pleased  to  meetcher,"  said  the  flit,  stepping  forward 
courteously.  "My  name's  Mr.  Slayter.  The  gob,  here,  is 
Chaw  Veeder.  He's  rough  stuff  from  the  gas-house,  but 
with  ladies  present  he'll  kindly  soft-pedal.  The  other 
guy  is  a  stuffed  professor  at  home,  at  present  consider- 
able alive.  Name,  Perfessor  James."  He  turned  to  ad- 
dress   Watts.     "Now,    where    to,    sir?" 

"Where  do  you  suggest:" 

"If  this  is  a  ladies'  game,"  responded  the  flit  tenta- 
tively, "there's  a  party  named  Miss  Nora  AlcSears  who 
cashes  at  an  all-night  restaurant  on  East  Fifty-eighth 
Street,  very  clean  and  respectable." 

"Right!  Go  to  Fifty-eighth  Street.  Will  you  get  in, 
Carey?" 

Miss  Carey  Vail  sniffed  the  air  daintily  and  observed 
the  tank  with  doubt.  "Do  you  think  your  steed  is  safe?" 
she  asked. 

"He's  uncertain  when  hungry,"  explained  the  gob; 
"but  he's  just  fed.  He's  had  one  small  dog,  one  large 
fruit-stand,  three  cans  of  garbage,  a  corner  of  the  Wal- 
dorf-Astoria and  a  chew  of  the  best  plug.  You  could 
trust  him  to  tow  a  baby-carriage  down  Peacock  Alley." 

Miss  Vail  embarked.  Her  next  observation,  "Do  be- 
have yourself,  Renny,"  was  inferred  rather  than  heard,  in 
the  commotion  of  their  turning.  Nor  was  their  converse 
thereafter,  though  earnest,  of  import  to  the  others,  who 
considerately  concentrated  their  attention  upon  the  outer 
world. 

The  Recherche  Restaurant  was  doing  a  languid,  ten- 
cent-to-a-quarter  trade,  when  East  Fifty-eighth  Street 
burst    into    "The    Anvil    Chorus."     Its    entire    clientele 


156  "CAB,  SIR?" 

rushed  to  the  door,  followed  by  a  tall,  calm-eyed  girl  with 
the  cash-register  in  her  arms.  The  tank  brought  up  with 
a  lurch  opposite  her. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Nora,"  said  the  flit,  emerging. 

"Good  evening,  yourself,  and  who  are  you?"  returned 
Miss  McSears  placidly. 

The  flit  assumed  an  air  of  profound  injury.  "Did  you 
or  did  you  not,  one  year  back,  come  St.  Patrick's  Day, 
after  the  Club  dance  at  camp,  take  my  regimental  pin  to 
wear  and  say  you'd  never  forget  Private  F.  Slayter,  now 
corporal?" 

"Maybe  I  did,"  admitted  the  girl,  "But  your  face  was 
clean  then." 

"I've  joined  the  tanks  since,"  said  Corporal  Slayter. 
"Treat  'em  rough."  Selecting  the  nearest  dimple  in  Miss 
McSears's  piquant  face,  he  saluted  it  in  form. 

"Move  on!"  cried  that  young  lady,  helpless  by  reason 
of  the  cash-machine,  but  wrathful.  "My  father's  a  police- 
man and  I'll  be  telephoning  for  him." 

"Ask  him  can  I  keep  company  with  his  daughter,"  sug- 
gested the  unperturbed  flit.  "We'll  move  on  when  you 
move  with  us." 

"In  that?"  retorted  the  girl,  bestowing  a  scornful  look 
upon  the  monster.  "I  don't  believe  it's  even  respectable. 
Who's  in  there?" 

Responding  to  the  flit's  unspoken  appeal,  the  woman 
passenger  stepped  out.  "I'm  Carey  Vail,"  she  began  in 
her  quiet,  assured  voice.     "You  may  know — " 

"Hello,  Vail,"  interrupted  Miss  McSears. 

"Why,  Mac!     Bless  your  old  heart!     How  are  you?" 

The  two  did  not  fall  on  each  other's  neck.  They  shook 
hands  in  manly  fashion.  "This  is  one  of  our  emergency 
volunteers  for  the  'flu'  work,"  explained  the  girl  in 
uniform.     "They  don't  make  them  any  better." 

"They   don't   need   to,   as    far's    I'm   concerned,"    mur- 
mured Mr.  Slayter,  relieving  the  bearer  of  the  cash-reg- 
ister.    "Are  you  on  for  our  little  party,  Nora?" 

"Wait  till  I  telephone  for  a  substitute,"  said  Miss  Mc- 
Sears. "And  do  you  behave  yourself,  you  with  your 
'Nora'!" 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  157 

Upon  her  return,  after  some  delay,  there  was  heard 
issuing  from  the  tank's  interior  dolorous  music,  in  the 
sike's  plaintive  baritone: 

"No  one  to  pity  him,  none  to  cay-ress 
No  one  to  help  him  in  his  sad  dy-stress." 

"The  Sweet  Singer  of  Michigan  has  broken  his  parole," 
observed  the  gob.  "Hey,  you  inside,  what's  on  your 
bursting  chest?" 

"I'm  lonely,"  stated  the  sike.  "All  my  lovely  com- 
panions are  faded  and  gone.     Captive  to  the  fair  sex. 

"Oh,  bury  me  on  the  lone  pray-r^i?/ 
Where  the  wild  ki-yotes  can't  pester  me." 

"Goodness  gracious!  What's  that?"  queried  Miss  Mc- 
Sears. 

"I  believe  it's  some  kind  of  a  professor,"  explained 
Miss  Vail,  as  the  flit  obligingly  turned  an  interior  light 
upon  the  sike.  Miss  McSears  viewed  the  exhibit  with 
critical  approval. 

"It  looks  good  to  me,"  she  said.  "Couldn't  we  get 
somebody  to  take  care  of  it  for  the  evening  and  make 
this  a  real  party?     Any  of  your  crowd  on,  Vail?" 

"Eleven  twenty-five,"  said  the  corps-girl,  examining  a 
wrist-watch.  "Dollv  Barrett'U  just  be  coming  off  duty. 
She'd  fit  in." 

"Great!"  assented  Miss  McSears,  and  the  two  girls  re- 
tired to  telephone. 

"Did  you  get  her?"  chorused  the  crew  of  the  tank,  when 
they  returned. 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Vail.  "We  told  her  to  meet  us 
at  eleven-fifty  on  the  south  side  of  Columbus  Circle 
where  Broadway  comes  in." 

"That's  a  nice,  retired  spot  for  a  tryst,"  said  Mr.  Watts 
sardonically.     "Did  you  tell  her  how  we  were  coming?" 

"No.     I  just  said  we'd  pick  her  up  in  a  car." 

"She'll  be  surprised." 

"Surprise  will  do  her  good.  She's  been  overworked 
lately  and  needs  livening  up." 

Surprise  was  obviously  the  trysted  one's  portion  when, 


iS8  "CAB,  SIR?" 

with  the  sound  of  earthquake  and  avalanche,  battle,  mur- 
der, and  sudden  death,  the  "cab"  arrived.  Nor  was  the 
initial  surprise  the  only  one.  A  perfect  stranger  with  a 
long,  lean,  pleasant  face  stepped  out  and  regarded  her 
with  appreciative  and  twinkling  eyes.  In  the  background 
she  dimly  apprehended  Miss  Vail  and  Miss  McSears. 
On  his  part  the  sike  contemplated  a  small,  trim  young 
person  with  very  black  hair,  very  gray  eyes  under 
black  brows  and  lashes  and  a  mouth  that  was  an  entice- 
ment to  disorderly  conduct.  His  bedazzled  regard  failed 
to  note  certain  features  of  her  costume.  His  once  pro- 
fessorial spirit  was  in  a  turmoil,  a  reckless,  desperate 
glow, 

"Good  evening,"  he  said  rapidly.  "We've  come  to  take 
you  riding.  Let  me  help  you  in.  My  name  is  Follans- 
bee  James.  I've  joined  the  tanks.  Treat  'em  rough." 
Smack!     The  disorderly  conduct  was   committed. 

"Attention !"  snapped  the  enraged  victim  of  the  caress. 

The  sike  fell  into  a  rigor,  a  paralysis,  intended  for  a 
salute.  His  horrified  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  newcom- 
er's nearest  shoulder.     A  silver  bar  shone  there. 

"Lord  help  me!  I've  kissed  my  superior  officer, " 
groaned  the  sike,  and  collapsed  into  the  waiting  arms  of 
the   gob. 

The  others  immediately  supplied  a  chorus  of  explana- 
tion and  apology,  greatly  enjoyed  and  appreciated  by  the 
gathering  crowd.  "Let's  get  out  of  here,"  said  Lieuten- 
ant Dolly  Barrett,  bewilderedly  rubbing  the  corner  of 
her  chin  (for  the  sike  had  been  nervous  and  his  marks- 
manship below  par).  "Go  into  the  Park,  where  it's 
quiet." 

Their  progress  spread  a  horrific  stridor  through  the 
peace  and  decorum  of  the  Park's  ordered  avenues,  and 
the  squirrels  awoke  in  the  tree-tops,  gibbering  with  terror, 
and  the  birds  took  wing  and  fled  into  the  unknown,  and 
the  new  hippopotamus  of  the  Zoo,  surmising  that  the  day 
of  judgment  was  upon  him,  repented  of  his  sins  in  a  wail 
that  scarred  the  ear-drums  of  the  sleeping  neighborhood; 
and  policemen,  singly  and  in  squads,  rushed  to  the  scene 
and  retired  before  the  sight  of  a  moving  fortress  display- 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS   ADAMS  159 

ing  the  American  flag,  and  Reuben  Renssalaer  Watts 
chose  that  time  as  propitious  for  a  whirlwind  advance, 
under  cover  of  the  riot,  upon  the  heart  of  Miss  Carey 
Vail.  As  he  pleaded  earnestly,  and  with  vast  expendi- 
ture of  lung-power,  which  did  not  reach  beyond  the  atten- 
tive ear  of  the  girl,  who  was  listening  with  an  expression 
somewhere  between  happiness,  panic,  and  surrender,  the 
flit  tactlessly  and  abruptly  shut  down  the  power  to  in- 
quire his  way,  and  Mr.  Watts  was  heard  (from  the  Bat- 
tery on  the  south  to  the  Bronx  on  the  north)  proclaiming 
the  finale  and  climax  of  his  wooing: 

" GOING  TO   MARRY  ME  THIS   VERY   NIGHT,  AS    IS  !" 

A  dead,  blank,  dismayed  silence  supervened.  The  un- 
intentional eavesdroppers  stared  at  each  other  and  away 
from  the  pair.  Ten  blocks  distant  the  hippopotamus 
laughed  raucously.  Mr.  Watts,  justly  indignant,  turned 
upon  the  chauffeur. 

"Keep  her  going,  you  fourth-rate,  donkey-engine  mis- 
fit!" he  roared,  in  tones  which  proved  that  he  didn't  care 
who  heard  him  this  time. 

''What  church?"  inquired  the  flit  promptly. 

"Not  any  church,"  cried  Miss  Carey  Vail.  "I  want 
to  go  ho-o-ome." 

"Oh,  be  a  sport,  Vail,"  adjured  her  superior  officer. 
"He  looks  all  right  to  me.  Why  not  marry  him  and 
put  him  out  of  his  misery?" 

"Go  on;  do!"  urged  Miss  McSears.  "It'll  be  so 
romantic." 

"Maybe  it'd  be  catching,"  hopefully  suggested  Cor- 
poral Slayter,  who  appeared  to  be  holding  Miss  Mc- 
Sears's  hand. 

"Happy  thought!"  contributed  the  sike.  "Don't  spoil 
the  evening's  fun  just  because  of  a  weak  prejudice  about 
formality." 

"Oh,  I  think  you're  all  mad!"  declared  Miss  Vail 
tremulously,  and  suddenly,  despite  her  uniform,  she 
looked  very  small  and  feminine  and  helpless.  "You, 
most  of  all,  Rcnny,     I  don't  know  what's  come  to  you." 

"I've  joined  the  tanks,"  said  Reuben  Renssalaer  Watts 
promptly,     "And — " 


i6o  "CAB,  SIR?" 

"Don't!"  wailed  Miss  Vail,  half  a  second  too  late  to 
forestall  the  action  which  went  with  the  statement.  "I 
want  to  go  ho-o-ome!"  she  faltered.  But  there  was  more 
bewilderment  than  conviction  in  her  appeal. 

"Directly  after  the  ceremony,"  promised  the  progressive 
wooer.  "We'll  ride  up  in  my  special  taxi  and  break  the 
news  to  the  family." 

"Look  here,  folkses,"  broke  in  the  gob.  "I'm  all  for 
this  Lohengrin-Mendelssohn  stuff.  But  it'll  take  some 
scheming.  We've  got  the  rest  of  the  night,  free  of  en- 
tanglements and  engagements,  except  the  one  we've  just 
been  witness  to,  is  it  not?" 

"It  is,"  responded  a  chorus,  minus  the  voice  of  Miss 
Carey  Vail  who  was  temporarily  speechless. 

"All  right,  I'm  going  to  blow  to  supper." 

"Not  at  twelve-fifteen,  in  this  man's  burg,"  corrected 
Mr.  Watts.     "It's  closed." 

"If  you  can  give  a  wedding  party,  I  guess  I  can  give  a 
supper  party,"  retorted  the  gob.  "And  I'm  going  to  if  I 
have  to  hold  up  somebody  else's.  Corporal,  conduct  Airy 
Fairy  Lillian  up  Mr.  Fifth's  well-known  avenue  while  I 
man  the  lookout,  and  be  ready  to  stop  on  signal." 

The  signal  was  given,  opposite  a  house  of  modest  size 
(for  that  part  of  the  thoroughfare)  with  evidences  of 
activity  in  the  front  rooms.  The  gob  ran  up  the  steps 
and  was  met  by  a  flustered-looking  person  who  made 
gestures  of  expostulation,  which  presently  were  mollified 
to  gestures   of  deprecation. 

"Come  one,  come  all,"  invited  the  gob,  returning. 
"There'll  be  a  short  wait  while  my  friend  in  the  shirt- 
sleeves— " 

"Who  is  this  guv.  Chaw?"  demanded  the  flit. 

"He's  the  butler.'" 

"Whose  butler?"  queried  Miss  McSears. 

"Don't  make  any  odds  whose.     He's  ours  at  present." 

"How  did  you  get  him?"  questioned  Watts. 

"It's  a  long  story  of  my  seamy  past,"  answered  the  gob. 
"He's  an  ex-con,  and  I've  got  a  strangle-hold  on  him.  So 
he's  invited  us  to  supper  and  when  the  family  gets  home 
from  the  country  in  the  morning  he  can  fix  up  his  own 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  i6i 

explanation  of  the  ice-box  to  suit  himself  and  them.  I've 
ordered  fizz." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  observed  Miss  McSears  with 
firmness.  "But  I  don't  go  to  midnight  suppers  in  other 
folks'  houses,  with  a  bunch  of  strangers — " 

"Strangers  once  but  lovers  now,"  stated  the  flit  firmly, 
"speaking  for  self  and  lady  friend." 

" — and  no  chaperon,"  pursued  the  spokeswoman  of  the 
proprieties,  reddening  but  obstinate.     "So  you   count — " 

"Silence  in  the  ranks!"  ordered  Dolly  Barrett.  "I'm 
an  officer  and  a  widow.     Is  that  enough?" 

"Plenty  for  me,  and  praise  to  Heaven  for  the  good 
news,"  said  the  sike,  enthusiastically.  "I  don't  mean  the 
officer  part,"  he  added  significantly,  "but  the  other." 

Mr.  Watts  regarded  him  curiously.  "There  may  be 
more  in  these  Western  universities  than  a  Harvard  man 
would  suspect,"  he  murmured. 

"And  to  think,"  sighed  the  sike,  "that  a  few  weeks 
hence  I  shall  be  pouring  pious  platform  platitudes  into 
the  happy  ears  of  inattentive  youth!" 

"Forward  in  light  foraging  order!"  commanded  the  gob. 

The  party  entered  the  house,  which  was  evidently  being 
hastily  cleaned  for  the  return  of  the  owners.  A  subdued 
noise  as  of  servants  in  commotion  could  be  heard  in  the 
rear.  On  a  hall  stand  stood  a  collection  of  mail  in  three 
piles.  The  flit  chancing  to  glance  at  it,  stood  petrified. 
Selecting  a  post-card  he  advanced  upon  the  rear  of  the 
unheeding  gob,  turned  up  the  bottom  of  the  wide  and 
floppy  left  trouser-leg,  read  from  the  sewn-in  slip  the 
name  inscribed  thereon,  compared  it  with  the  address 
on  the  post-card,  turned  down  the  trouser-leg  to  one  fold 
and  with  a  sudden,  sardonic  inspiration  not  only  left  It  so, 
but  adjusted  the  other  one  to  match  It. 

"Mr.  Schuyler  Tappan  Veeder,"  he  observed  with  con- 
centrated  bitterness,  straightening   up. 

"Here,"  responded  the  gob,  cheerfullv.  "What  about 
it?" 

"This  is  your  joint,"  declared  the  flit  in  solemn  accusa- 
tion. 


i62  "CAB,  SIR?" 

"Not  while  my  fond  parents  enjoy  their  present 
health,"  was  the  genial  reply. 

But  the  soul  of  Corporal  Slayter  was  hot  with  sus- 
picion. "What  kinda  con  game  you  been  workin'  on 
me?"  he  said,  surlily.    "Call  yourself  Chaw  Veeder." 

"Barring  the  presence  of  ladies,  you're  a  liar,"  retorted 
the  gob  promptly.  "It's  my  pals  call  me  Chaw.  Which 
reminds  me."  Producing  a  rich-hued  bar  from  his 
pocket,  he  bit  off  a  generous  chunk  and  expertly  stowed  it. 
The  angry  eyes  of  his  pal  flickered  a  little.  But  he  was 
unconvinced. 

"You're  phony,"  he  growled.  "A  masqueradin'  dude." 
He  pointed  to  the  trousers  which  he  had  left  "cuffed." 
"That's  your  style,"  he  asserted.  "Me,  I'm  through.  I'll 
not  be  made  a  guy  of.     C'mon,  Nora." 

The  gob  stretched  forth  an  iron-muscled  hand  which  he 
inserted  forcibly  and  affectionately  between  the  flit's  neck 
and  his  collar.  "Pause  a  'moment,  Claude,"  he  be- 
sought. "Girls,  will  you  kindly  muffle  your  ears? 
Thanks.  Now,  Freddie,  you  lop-sided,  cross-grained, 
bone-headed,  swivel-eared,  pizen-souled  descendant  of 
ten  generations  of  mule-thieves,  before  I  break  your  jaw 
in  three  places  at  once,  listen  while  I  tell  you  what  you 
are."  And  he  told  him.  But  of  the  telling  there  is  no 
record,  because  after  the  preface,  Mr.  Watts  retired  for 
air  and  the  sike  ran  out  to  seek  a  pencil  and  paper  and 
returned  too  late  for  the  exordium.  The  flit,  spell-bound, 
relaxed  his  expression  of  disfavor.  When  it  was  over  he 
bent  down  and  readjusted  the  gob's  trouser-legs  to  the 
regulation  straightness.     Apology  could  go  no  further. 

"You  win.  Chaw,"  said  he  shamefacedly.  "Speed  up 
the  wedding  feast." 

It  is  recorded  in  the  unwritten  history  of  Fifth  Avenue's 
most  costly  and  exclusive  section,  that  there  came,  upon 
a  midnight  clear,  a  din  as  of  ten  thousand  structural 
riveters  in  progressive  action,  giving  place  to  sounds  of 
revelry  by  early  morning,  which  in  turn  was  succeeded  by 
the  Anvil  Chorus,  above  the  surface  of  which  soared  a 
valiant  barytone  proclaiming,  "The  Voice  that  Breathed 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS   ADAMS  163 

O'er  Eden."  Mr.  Chaw  Veeder's  supper-party,  back  In 
the  tank,  was  adjourning  to  night-court  to  seek  a  marry- 
ing magistrate.  For,  as  in  the  old  song,  love  (in  the  per- 
son of  Mr.  Reuben  Renssalaer  Watts)  had  found  out  the 
way,  and  the  telephone,  i-eaching  a  friendly  judge,  had 
arranged  a  special  emergency  license. 

Many  queer  equipages  with  strange  cargoes  visit  night- 
court  on  sundry  errands;  but  the  tank  with  its  wedding- 
party  broke  the  record. 

Court  adjourned  informally,  to  rush  out  and  ascertain 
who  was  bombing  the  locality  and  why.  When  the  party 
entered,  they  beheld  two  policemen  struggling  to  extri- 
cate the  magistrate  from  the  frantic  embrace  of  Mr. 
Bingle  Foxley,  who  was  yelling: 

"Save  me!  It's  coming  after  me.  I  hear  it.  Don't 
let  it  get  me.  Judge !" 

When  at  length  his  Honor  was  released,  the  sike  greeted 
him  with  surprise. 

"It's  you,  is  it?" 

"It's  me,"  agreed  the  magistrate.  "Or  if  not  me,  I." 
He  was  the  bearded  victim  of  "Cherchez  la  Chicken." 

"We  found  him,"  remarked  the  sike,  indicating  Mr. 
Reuben  Renssalaer  Watts. 

"So  I  perceive.     It's  a  small  world." 

"Small  like  a  Harlem  flat,"  confirmed  IMiss  Nora  Mc- 
Sears  discontentedly.  "You  can't  turn  around  in  it  with- 
out rousing  the  family.  That,"  she  pursued,  pointing  out 
to  Corporal  Slayter  one  of  the  policemen  engaged  in  pre- 
venting Mr.  Foxlev  from  crawling  into  the  commitment 
file,  "is  Pa." 

"Howdy,  Pa!"  said  the  flit. 

"Whaddye  mean,  'Pa'?"  demanded  the  thunderstruck 
officer. 

"In-law,"  explained  Mr.  Slayter.     "To-be,"  he  added. 

"Perhaps,"   amended  Miss   McSears. 

"Sure  thing,"  asseverated  the  flit  blithely.  "It's  in  the 
air.     You  can't  dodge  it." 

"Other  things  difiicult  to  dodge  are  in  the  air,"  ob- 
served the  magistrate.  "Reuben,  as  friend  to  friend  and 
unofficially,  how  did  you  get  these?" 


i64  "CAB,  SIR?" 

"By  the  hour,"  replied  Mr.  Watts.     "I  hh-ed  'em." 

"Are  you  responsible  for  their  actions?" 

"Upon  and  after  the  hour  of  11:05  p.m.,  I  am." 

"You  escape,"  pronounced  the  magistrate.  "At  11:02 
P.M.  I  am  informed,  an  armored  tank  filled  with  des- 
peradoes, I.  W.  W.  Bolshevists,  anarchists,  nihilists,  pro- 
hibitionists and  other  enemies  of  the  public  welfare,  in- 
vaded West  Forty-fourth  Street  and  did  there  and  then 
interrupt  an  orderly  meeting  of  the  Society  for  the  Aboli- 
tion of  Tobacco,  Bridge,  Dancing  and  other  Hellish 
Habits,  by  felonious  means,  to  wit:  firing  upon  it  with 
machine  guns,  gatlings,  howitzers,  hand-grenades,  rifles, 
revolvers  and  sundry  lethal  weapons,  against  the  ordi- 
nances duly  made  and  provided  for  the  maintenance  of 
the   peace." 

"So  help  me  God,"  intoned  a  large,  solemn,  pulpy 
person,  rising  in  his  seat. 

"That's  the  guy,"  cried  the  flit,  "that  called  us  'Bol- 
she-'y^ff-ki !'     Lemme  attim." 

"Then  you  admit  that  you  are  them,"  said  the  magis- 
trate.    "Or,  if  not  them,  they." 

"We  do,"  said  the  gob;  "with  mitigating  circumstances." 

"There  is  a  warrant  out  against  you." 

A  blond  and  frescoed  portent  projected  itself  upward 
from  a  side  bench.  "Make  it  two.  Judge.  And  make 
the  second  one  for  murder." 

"Saints  preserve  us !"  groaned  the  sike.  "The  sorrow- 
ing protectress  of  the  silhouetted  pup!" 

"It  is  a  small  world,"  repeated  the  magistrate.  "This 
gentleman  (indicating  the  stricken  Mr.  Foxley)  who 
originally  came  here  for  the  purpose  of  taking  the  pledge, 
now  prefers  the  charge  that  you  instigated  to  attack  him 
without  provocation  a  prehistoric  monster  of  the  dragon 
or  fire-spouting  persuasion  which,  after  destroying  his 
automobile,  chased  him  through  a  plate-glass  window 
and  totally  wrecked  his  nerves.  Comparing  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  monster  with  my  own  impression  of  your 
vehicle,  and  remembering  that  the  female  of  the  species 
is  more  deadly  than  the  male,  I  conclude  that  it  is  her. 
Or,  if  not  her,  it.     What  have  you  to  say?" 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS   ADAMS  165 

"Just  this,"  answered  Mr.  Watts  with  annoyance,  "I 
came  here  to  be  married,  not   prosecuted.     Come  now, 
Hartley,  as  friend  to  friend,  can't  you  fix  this?     It  may  be 
my  last  chance." 

"Your  friend  with  the  talent  for  blackmail  seems  to  be 
a  person  of  infinite  resource,"  said  the  magistrate,  glanc- 
ing toward  the  sike.     "Has  he  any  suggestions:" 

"If  I  may  be  permitted,"  said  the  sike,  modestly 
rising,  "I  suggest,  first,  that  Mr.  Foxley  is  too  good  a 
sport  to  spoil  a  wedding,  if  assured  that  the  groom  will 
never  again  travel  Fifth  Avenue  in  a  tank.  (Mr.  Foxley 
grunted.)  As  for  the  noble  cause  of  Suppression  of 
Tobacco  et  cetera,  I  propose  a  generous  epithalamic  con- 
tribution thereto  by  the  happy  bridegroom.  We  now 
come  to  the  ill-fated  canine,  and  its  sorrowing  owner. 
Though  myself  in  a  state  of  genteel  poverty,  I  will  gladly 
start  a  subscription  to  bury  it,  or  if  that  prove  imprac- 
ticable, to  have  it  pasted  in  a  scrap-book,  with  appro- 
priate honors." 

"Nothin'  doin' !"  asserted  the  bereaved  blonde  in  angry 
tones.     "I  wanta  tell  you — " 

"One  moment,  please.  Would  it  not  soothe  your  in- 
jured feelings  to  be  invited  to  the  wedding  and  to  sign 
as  legal  witness?  There  is  a  reporter  present,  and  I 
assume  that  the  nuptials  of  Mr.  Reuben  Renssalaer  Watts 
with  Miss  Carey  Vail  will  receive  a  meed  of  desirable  pub- 
licity extending  to  all  who  participate." 

"Not  the  Miss  Carey  Vail!"  exclaimed  the  awe-struck 
blonde,  who  went  into  Society  eagerly,  though  vicariously, 
through  the  medium  of  the  daily  press. 

"The  same,"  declared  Mr.  Watts.  "Positively  last  ap- 
pearance in  that  role.  That  is,"  he  added  anxiously,  "if 
you  accept  our  earnest  invitation  to  come  to  the  wed- 
ding." 

"Chawmed,  I'm  suah,"  murmured  the  lady,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  powder  her  nose  from  an  apparatus  concealed 
in  a  dangling  bag. 

The  sike  felt  a  soft  touch  on  his  elbow.  Lieutenant 
Dolly  Barrett's  large  gray  eyes  glowed  warmly  up  into  his. 

"You  ought  to  be  running  the  Peace  Conference,"  she 
opined. 


i66  "CAB,  SIR?" 

"And  to  think,"  mourned  the  sike,  "that  next  month 
I'll  be  acting  the  melancholy  mentor  to  a  flock  of  corn- 
fed  prairie-rubes." 

"Court  will  convene  in  my  private  room  for  matrimo- 
nial purposes  at  once,"  proclaimed  the  magistrate. 

The  ceremony  was  brief  and  business-like.  The  wit- 
nesses were  the  sike  and  Mrs.  Barrett,  quite  close  to- 
gether, the  flit  and  Miss  McSears  (bracketed  by  the 
former),  the  gob,  with  rating  and  ship  attached,  Mr. 
Foxley  in  a  shaken  hand,  and  Mrs.  Eudora  Fotheringay 
in  letters  half  an  inch  high  and  ninety  degrees  slant.  The 
whole  party  attended  by  the  court  officials  went  out  to 
see  the  pair  off".    The  flit,  saluting,  stepped  forward. 

"Cab,  sir?" 

"Certainly,"  assented  the  bridegroom. 

"Certainly  not,"  amended  the  bride. 

"Not?"  queried  the  flit,  crestfallen. 

"Taxi,"  said  the  new  Mrs.  Watts  decisively,  hailing 
one  as  it  rounded  the  corner. 

"Cab,  lady?"  coyly  invited  the  flit,  turning  to  Miss 
McSears,  as  the  bridal  couple  were  whirled  away. 

"Subway,"  retorted  Pa  McSears  emphatically,  "speak- 
ing for  self  and  daughter." 

"Cab,  sir?"  the  operator  solicited  Mr.  Bingle  Foxley. 

"Help!"  responded  that  gentleman,  making  a  leap  for 
the  nearest  haven,  which  chanced  to  be  Mrs.  Fotherin- 
gay's  limousine,  where  he  was  hospitably  received. 

"Cab,  Chaw?"  cried  the  desperate  flit,  seeing  his  cus- 
tom dropping  away. 

"Life  is  sweet,"  observed  the  gob,  and  followed  Mr. 
Foxley  into  his  perfumed  retirement. 

"Cab,  buddy?"  almost  wept  Corporal  Slayter,  address- 
ing himself  in  a  seductive  coo  to  Professor  Follansbee 
James.  ''^And  sister,"  he  added,  noting  the  confidential 
juxtaposition  of  the  two  heads. 

"We  are  walking,  thank  you  so  much,"  said  Lieuten- 
ant Barrett  sweetly. 

"Old  Bird,"  the  sorrowing  flit  addressed  the  metallic 
accomplice  of  his  crimes,  "  we  are,  as  it  were,  dumped 
into   Cupid's   ash-can.     Cheer   up!     I   will   never   desert 


SAMUEL    HOPKINS    ADAMS  167 

you."  His  eyes  fell  upon  the  legend,  "To  be  returned." 
"I'd  forgotten  about  that,"  he  murmured,  "Where  to, 
I  wonder?"  He  reversed  the  placard  and  was  confronted 
by  this  warning  in  red  and  minatory  letters: 

Do  Not  Operate 
Condemned  as 
DANGEROUS 

The  flit  cast  a  pensive  eye  up  the  street  where  the  dust 
of  the  bridal  departure  still  hung,  shifted  it  to  the  wake 
of  the  Fotheringay  limousine  bearing  the  gob  and  the  re- 
formed Foxley  from  the  stricken  field,  glanced  yearn- 
ingly toward  the  corner  where  Miss  Nora  McSears, 
temporarily  a  parental  captive,  threw  him  a  swift  and 
comforting  signal,  and  regarded  with  benignity  two  uni- 
formed figures  marching  along  the  sidewalk  side-by-side, 
in  that  sweet  accord  which  apostles  of  the  millennium  pre- 
scribe not  alone  for  the  lion  and  the  lamb,  but  also  for 
the  officer  and  the  soldier  in  the  ranks. 

"Dangerous,"  he  repeated,  as  a  grin,  appreciative  but 
tender,  lighted  up  his  rugged  features.  Then,  with  con- 
viction, "77/  say  it  is  I" 


McClure's  Magazine 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH 

BY 

EDNA  FERBER 


YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH ' 
By   EDNA    FERBER 

WHEN  you  try  to  do  a  story  about  three  people  like 
Sid  Hahn  and  Mizzi  Markis  and  Wallic  Ascher 
you  find  yourself  pawing  around  among  the  personalities, 
helplessly.  For  the  three  of  them  are  what  is  known 
in  newspaper  parlance  as  national  figures.  One  n.  f.  is 
enough  for  any  short  story.  Three  would  swamp  a  book. 
It's  like  one  of  those  plays  advertised  as  having  an  all- 
star  cast.  By  the  time  each  luminary  has  come  on,  and 
been  greeted,  and  done  his  twinkling,  the  play  has  faded 
into  the  background.  You  can't  see  the  heavens  for  the 
stars. 

Surely  Sid  Hahn,  like  the  guest  of  honor  at  a  dinner, 
needs  no  introduction.  And  just  as  surely  will  he  be  in- 
troduced. He  has  been  described  elsewhere  and  often; 
perhaps  nowhere  more  concisely  than  on  page  16,  para- 
graph two,  of  a  volume  that  shall  be  nameless,  though 
quoted,  thus: 

"Sid  Hahn,  erstwhile  usher,  call-boy,  press  agent,  ad- 
vance man,  had  a  genius  for  things  theatrical.  It  was 
inborn.  Dramatic,  sensitive,  artistic,  intuitive,  he  was 
often  rendered  inarticulate  by  the  very  force  and  variety 
of  his  feelings.  A  little,  rotund,  ugly  m-in,  with  the  eyes 
of  a  dreamer,  the  wide,  mobile  mouth  of  a  humorist,  the 
ears  of  a  comic  ol'  clo'es  man.  His  generosity  was  pro- 
verbial, and  it  amounted  to  a  vice." 

Not  that  that  covers  him.  No  one  paragraph  could. 
You  turn  a  fine  diamond  this  way  and  that,  and  as  its 
facets  catch  the  light  you  say,  "It's  scarlet!  No — it's 
blue !     No — rose  I — orange ; — lilac ! — no — " 

That  was  Sid  Hahn. 

^  Copyright  by  McClure's  Magazine 


172  YOU'VE    GOT   TO    BE    SELFISH 

I  suppose  he  never  really  sat  for  a  photograph  and  yet 
you  saw  his  likeness  in  all  the  magazines.  He  was 
snapped  on  the  street,  and  in  the  theatre,  and  even  up 
in  his  famous  library-study-office  on  the  sixth  and  top 
floor  of  the  Thalia  Theatre  Building.  Usually  with  a  fat 
black  cigar,  unlighted,  in  one  corner  of  his  commodious 
mouth.  Everyone  interested  in  things  theatrical  (and 
whom  does  that  not  include?)  knew  all  about  Sid  Hahn — 
and  nothing.  He  had  come,  a  boy,  from  one  of  those 
middle-western  towns  with  a  highfalutin  Greek  name. 
Parthenon,  Ohio,  or  something  incredible  like  that.  No 
one  knows  how  he  first  approached  the  profession  which 
he  was  to  dominate  in  America.  There's  no  record  of 
his  having  asked  for  a  job  in  a  theatre,  and  received  it. 
He  oozed  into  it,  indefinably,  and  moved  with  it,  and  be- 
came a  part  of  it  and  finally  controlled  it.  Satellites,  fur- 
collared  and  pseudo-successful,  trailing  in  his  wake,  used 
to  talk  loudly  of  I-knew-him-when.  They  all  lied.  It 
had  been  Augustin  Daly,  dead  these  many  years,  who 
had  first  recognized  in  this  boy  the  genius  for  discovering 
and  directing  genius.  Daly  was,  at  that  time,  at  the 
zenith  of  his  career — managing,  writing,  directing,  pro- 
ducing. He  fired  the  imagination  of  this  stocky,  gar- 
goyle-faced boy  with  the  luminous  eyes  and  the  humorous 
mouth.  I  don't  know  that  Sid  Hahn,  hanging  about 
the  theatre  in  every  kind  of  menial  capacity,  ever  said 
to  himself  in  so  many  words: 

"I'm  going  to  be  what  he  is.  I'm  going  to  concen- 
trate on  it.  I  won't  let  anything  or  anybody  interfere 
with  it.  Nobody  knows  what  I'm  going  to  be.  But  I 
know  .  .  .  And  you've  got  to  be  selfish.  You've  got  to 
be   selfish." 

Of  course  no  one  ever  really  made  a  speech  like  that 
to  himself,  even  in  the  Horatio  Alger  books.  But  if  the 
great  ambition  and  determination  running  through  the 
whole  fibre  of  his  being  could  have  been  crystallized  into 
spoken  words  they  would  have  sounded  like  that. 

By  the  time  he  was  forty-five  he  had  discovered  more 
stars  than  Copernicus.    They  were  not  all  first  magnitude 


EDNA    FERBER  173 

twinklers.  Some  of  them  even  glowed  so  feebly  that  you 
could  see  their  light  only  when  he  stood  behind  them,  the 
steady  radiance  of  his  genius  shining  through.  But  taken 
as  a  whole  they  made  a  brilliant  constellation,  furnishing 
much  of  the  illumination  for  the  brightest  thoroughfare 
in  the  world. 

He  had  never  married.  There  are  those  who  say  that 
he  had  had  an  early  love  affair,  but  that  he  had  sworn 
not  to  marry  until  he  had  achieved  what  he  called 
success.  And  by  that  time  it  had  been  too  late.  It  was 
as  though  the  hot  flame  of  ambition  had  burned  out 
all  his  other  passions.  Later  they  say  he  was  respon- 
sible for  more  happy  marriages  contracted  by  people 
who  did  not  know  that  he  was  responsible  for  them,  than 
a  popular  East  Side  shadchen.  He  grew  a  little  tired, 
perhaps,  of  playing  with  make-believe  stage  characters, 
and  directing  them,  so  he  began  to  play  with  real  ones, 
like  God.     But  always   kind. 

No  woman  can  resist  making  love  to  a  man  as  in- 
different as  Sid  Hahn  appeared  to  be.  They  all  tried 
their  wiles  on  him;  the  red-haired  ingenues,  the  blonde 
soubrettes,  the  stately  leading  ladies,  the  war  horses,  the 
old-timers,  the  ponies,  the  prima  donnas.  He  used  to  sit 
there  in  his  great,  luxurious,  book-lined  inner  office,  smil- 
ing and  inscrutable  as  a  plump  joss-house  idol,  while 
the  fair  ones  burnt  incense  and  made  offering  of  shew- 
bread.  Figuratively  he  kicked  over  the  basket  of  shew- 
bread  and  of  the  incense  said,  "Take  away  that  stuff! 
It  smells!" 

Not  that  he  hated  women.  He  was  afraid  of  them, 
at  first.  Then,  from  years  of  experience  with  the  fem- 
ininity of  the  theatre,  not  nearly  afraid  enough.  So, 
early,  he  had  locked  that  corner  of  his  mind,  and  had 
thrown  away  the  key.  When,  years  after,  he  broke  in 
the  door,  lo!  (as  they  say  when  an  elaborate  figure  of 
speech  is  being  used)  lo!  the  treasures  therein  had  turned 
to  dust  and  ashes. 

It  was  he  who  had  brought  over  from  Paris  to  the 
American  stage  the  famous  Renee  Paterne,  of  the  incor- 


174  YOU'VE    GOT   TO   BE    SELFISH 

rigible  eyes.  She  made  a  fortune  and  swept  the  country 
with  her  song  about  those  delinquent  orbs.  But  when 
she  turned  them  on  Hahn,  in  their  first  interview  in  his 
office,  he  regarded  her  with  what  is  known  as  a  long 
level  look.  She  knew  at  that  time  not  a  word  of  English. 
Sid  Hahn  was  ignorant  of  French.  He  said,  very  low, 
and  with  terrible  calm  to  Wallie  Ascher  who  was  then 
acting  as  a  sort  of  secretary,  "Wallie,  can't  you  do  some- 
thing to  make  her  stop  rolling  her  eyes  around  at  me  like 
that.^  It's  awful!  She  makes  me  think  of  those  heads 
you  shy  balls  at,  out  at  Coney.    Take  away  my  inkwell." 

Renee  had  turned  swiftly  to  Wallie  and  had  said  some- 
thing to  him  in  French.  Sid  Hahn  cocked  a  quick  ear. 
"What's  that  she  said?" 

"She  says,"  translated  the  obliging  and  gifted  Wallie, 
"that  monsieur  is  a  woman-hater." 

"My  God!  I  thought  she  didn't  understand  English!" 

"She  doesn't.  But  she's  a  woman.  Not  only  that, 
she's  a  Frenchwoman.  They  don't  need  to  know  a  lan- 
guage to  understand  it." 

"Where  did  you  get  that,  h'm?  That  wasn't  included 
in  your  Berlitz  course,  was  it.'"' 

Wallie  Ascher  had  grinned — that  winning  flash  lighting 
up  his  dark,  keen  face.  "No,  I  learned  that  In  another 
school." 

Wallie  Ascher's  early  career  in  the  theatre.  If  repeated 
here,  might  almost  be  a  tiresome  repetition  of  Hahn's  be- 
ginning. And  what  Augustin  Daly  had  been  to  Sid 
Hahn's  Imagination  and  ambition,  Sid  Flahn  was  to 
Wallie's.  Wallie,  though,  had  been  born  to  the  theatre 
■ — if  having  a  tumbler  for  a  father  and  a  prestidigitator's 
foil  for  a  mother  can  be  said  to  be  a  legitimate  entrance 
into  the  world  of  the  theatre. 

He  had  been  employed  about  the  old  Thalia  for  years 
before  Hahn  noticed  him.  In  the  beginning  he  was  a 
spindle-legged  office  boy  in  the  up-stairs  suite  of  the  firm 
of  Hahn  &  Lohman,  theatrical  producers,  the  kind  of 
office  boy  who  is  addicted  to  shrill  clear  whistling  unless 
very  firmly  dealt  with.  No  one  in  the  outer  office 
realized  how  faultless,  how  rhythmic  were  the  arpeggios 


EDNA    FERBER  175 

and  cadences  that  issued  from  those  expertly  puckered 
lips.  There  was  about  his  performance  an  unerring  pre- 
cision. As  you  listened  you  felt  that  his  ascent  to  the 
inevitable  high  note  was  a  thing  impossible  of  achieve- 
ment. Up — up — up  he  would  go,  while  you  held  your 
breath  in  suspense.  And  then  he  took  the  high  note — 
took  it  easily,  insouciantly — held  it,  trilled  it,  tossed  it. 

"Now  look  here,"  Miss  Feldman  would  snap — Miss 
Feldman  of  the  outer  office  typewriter — "look  here,  you 
kid.  Any  more  of  that  bird  warbling  and  you  go  back 
to  the  woods  where  you  belong.  This  ain't  a — a — " 
"Aviary,"  suggested  Wallie,  almost  shyly. 
Miss  Feldman  glared.  "How  did  vou  know  that 
word !" 

"I  don't  know,"  helplessly.    "But  it's  the  word,  isn't  it?" 
Miss  Feldman  turned  back  to  her  typewriter.     "You're 
too  smart  for  your  age,  you  are." 

"I  know  it,"  Wallie  had  agreed,  humbly. 
There's  no  telling  where  or  how  he  learned  to  play 
the  piano.  He  probably  never  did  learn.  He  played  it, 
though,  as  he  whistled — brilliantly.  No  doubt  it  was  as 
imitative  and  as  unconscious,  too,  as  his  whistling  h::d 
been.  They  say  he  didn't  know  one  note  from  another, 
and  doesn't  to  this  day. 

At  twenty,  when  he  should  have  been  in  love  with  at 
least  three  girls,  he  had  fixed  in  his  mind  an  image,  a 
dream.  And  it  bore  no  resemblance  to  twenty's  accepted 
dreams.  At  that  time  he  was  living  in  one  room  (rear) 
of  a  shabby  rooming  house  in  Thirty-ninth  Street.  And 
this  was  the  dream:  By  the  time  he  was — well,  long 
before  he  was  thirty — he  would  have  a  bachelor  apart- 
ment with  a  Jap,  Saki.  Saki  was  the  perfect  servant, 
noiseless,  unobtrusive,  expert.  He  saw  little  dinners  just 
for  four — or,  at  the  most,  six.  And  Saki,  white-coated, 
deft,  sliding  hot  plates  when  plates  should  be  hot;  cold 
plates  when  plates  should  be  cold.  Then,  other  even- 
ings, alone,  when  he  wanted  to  see  no  one — when,  in  a 
silken  lounging  robe  (over  faultless  dinner  clothes,  of 
course,  and  uearing  the  kind  of  collar  you  see  in  the  back 
of  the  magazines)   he  would  say,  "That  will  do,  Saki." 


176  YOU'VE    GOT   TO   BE    SELFISH 

Then,  all  evening,  he  would  play  softly  to  himself  those 
little,  intimate,  wistful  Schumanny  things  in  the  firelight 
with  just  one  lamp  glowing  softly — almost  sombrely — at 
the  side  of  the  piano  (grand). 

His  first  real  meeting  with  Sid  Hahn  had  had  much  to 
do  with  the  fixing  of  this  image.     Of  course  he  had  seen 
Hahn    hundreds    of   times    in   the   office    and    about    the 
theatre.      They    had    spoken,    too,    many    times.      Hahn 
called  him  vaguely,  "Heh,  boy!"  but  he  grew  to  know 
him  later  as  Wallie.     From  errand  boy,  office  boy,  call 
boy,  he  had  become,  by  that  time,  a  sort  of  unofficial  as- 
sistant  stage   manager.     No   one   acknowledged   that   he 
was  invaluable  about  the  place,  but  he  was.     When  a  new 
play  was  in  rehearsal  at  the  Thalia,  Wallie  knew  more 
about  props,  business,  cues,  lights,  and  lines  than  the  direc- 
tor himself.     For  a  long  time  no  one  but  Wallie  and  the  di- 
rector was  aware  of  this.     The  director  never  did  admit  it. 
But  that  Hahn  should  find  it  out  was  inevitable. 

He  was  nineteen  or  thereabouts  when  he  was  sent,  one 
rainy  November  evening,  to  deliver  a  play  manuscript  to 
Hahn  at  his  apartment.  Wallie  might  have  refused  to 
perform  an  errand  so  menial,  but  his  worship  of  Hahn 
made  him  glad  of  any  service,  however  humble.  He  but- 
toned his  coat  over  the  manuscript,  turned  up  his  collar, 
and  plunged  into  the  cold  drizzle  of  the  November 
evening. 

Hahn's  apartment — he  lived  alone — was  in  the  early 
fifties,  off  Fifth  Avenue.  For  two  days  he  had  been  ill 
with  one  of  the  heavy  colds  to  which  he  was  subject.  He 
was  unable  to  leave  the  house.     Hence  Wallie's  errand. 

It  was  Saki — or  Saki's  equivalent — who  opened  the 
door.  A  whi,te-jacketed,  soft-stepping  Jap,  world  old 
looking  like  the  room  glimpsed  just  beyond.  Some  one 
was  playing  the  piano  with  one  finger,  horribly. 

"You're  to  give  this  to  Mr.  Hahn.    He's  waiting  for  it." 

"Genelmun  come  in,"  said  the  Jap,  softly. 

"No,  he  doesn't  want  to  see  me.  Just  give  it  to  him,  see.'"' 

"Genelmun  come  in."     Evidently  orders. 

"Oh,  all  right.    But  I  know  he  doesn't  want — " 

Wallie  turned  down  his  collar  with  a  quick  fiip,  looked 


EDNA    FERBER  i77 

doubtfully  at  his  shoes,  and  passed  through  the  glowing 
little  foyer  into  the  room  beyond.  He  stood  in  the  door- 
way. He  was  scarcely  twenty  then,  but  something  in  him 
sort  of  rose,  and  gathered,  and  seethed,  and  swelled,  and 
then  hardened.  He  didn't  know  it  then  but  it  was  his 
great  resolve. 

Sid  Hahn  was  seated  at  the  piano,  a  squat,  gnomelike 
little  figure,  with  those  big  ears,  and  that  plump  face,  and 
those  soft  eyes — the  kindest  eyes  in  the  world.  He  did 
not  stop  playing  as  Wallie  appeared.  He  glanced  up  at 
him,  ever  so'bricfly,  but  kindly,  too,  and  went  on  playing 
the  thing  with  one  short  forefinger,  excruciatingly.  Wal- 
lie waited.  He  had  heard  somewhere  that  Hahn  would 
sit  at  the  piano  thus,  for  hours,  the  tears  running  down 
his  cheeks  because  of  the  beauty  of  the  music  he  could  re- 
member but  not  reproduce;  ancl  partly  because  of  his  own 
inability  to  reproduce  it. 

The  stubby  little  forefinger  faltered,  stopped.  He 
looked  up  at  Wallie. 

"God,  I  wish  I  could  play!" 

"Helps  a  lot." 

"You  playr" 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"Oh,  most  anything  I  have  heard  once.  And  some 
things  I  kind  of  make  up." 

"Compose,  you  mean:" 

"Yes." 

"Play  one  of  those." 

So  Wallie  Ascher  played  one  of  those.  Of  course  you 
know  "Good  Night — Pleasant  Dreams."  He  hadn't 
named  it  then.  It  wasn't  even  published  until  almost 
two  years  later,  but  that  was  what  he  played  for  Sid  Hahn. 
Since  "After  the  Ball,"  no  popular  song  has  achieved  the 
success  of  that  one.  No  doubt  It  was  cheap,  and  no 
doubt  It  was  sentimental,  but  so,  too,  are  the  "Suwanee 
River"  and  "My  Old  Kentucky  Home,"  and  they'll  be 
singing  those  when  more  classical  songs  have  long  been  for- 
gotten. As  Wallie  played  it  his  dark,  thin  face  seemed 
to  gleam  and  glow  in  the  lamplight. 


178  YOU'VE    GOT   TO    BE    SELFISH 

When  he  had  finished  playing  Sid  Hahn  was  silent  for 
a  moment.     Then,     "What're  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"With  what?" 

"With  what  you've  got.     You  know." 

Wallie  knew  that  he  did   not   mean  the  song  he   had 
just    played.      "I'm    going    to — I'm    going    to   do    a    lot 
with  it." 

"Yeh,  but  how?" 

Wallie  was  looking  down  at  his  two  lean  brown  hands 
on   the   keys.     For    a    long    minute    he   did    not    answer. 
Then:    "By  thinking  about  it  all   the  time.     And  work- 
ing   like    hell.  .  .  .  And    you've    got    to    be    selfish,  .  .  . 
You've  got  to  be  selfish...." 

As  Sid  Hahn  stared  at  him,  as  though  hypnotized,  the 
Jap  appeared  in  the  doorway.  So  Hahn  said,  "Stay  and 
have  dinner  with  me,"  instead  of  what  he  had  meant  to 
say. 

"Oh,  I  can't!  Thanks.  I — "  He  wanted  to,  terribly, 
but  the  thought  was  too  much. 

"Better." 

They  had  dinner  together.  Even  under  the  influence 
of  Hahn's  encouragement,  and  two  glasses  of  mellow 
wine  whose  name  he  did  not  know,  Wallie  did  not  be- 
come fatuous.  They  talked  about  music — neither  of  them 
knew  anything  about  it,  really.  Wallie  confessed  that 
he  used  it  as  an  intoxicant  and  a  stimulant. 

"That's  it!"  cried  Hahn,  excitedly.  "If  I  could  play 
I'd  have  done  more." 

"Why    don't    you    get    one    of    those    piano-players? 
Whatyoucallems — "   then,    immediately,    "No,   of  course 


not." 


"Nah,  that  doesn't  do  it,"  said  Hahn,  quickly.     "That's 
like  adopting  a  baby  when  you  can't  have  one  of  your 
own.     It  isn't  the  same.     It  isn't  the  same.     It  looks  like  a 
baby,  and  acts  like  a  baby,  and  sounds  like  a  baby — but  it 
isn't  yours.     It  isn't  you.     That's  it!     It  isn't  you!" 

"Yeh,"  agreed  Wallie,  nodding.     So  perfectly  did  they 
understand  each  other,  this  ill-assorted  pair. 

It   was   midnight   before   Wallie   left.     They   had   both 
forgotten  about  the  play  manuscript  whose  delivery  had 


EDNA    FERBER  179 

been  considered  so  important.     The  big  room  was  gra- 
cious, quiet,  soothing.     A  fire  flickered  in  the  '^^rate.    One 
lamp  glowed  softly — almost  sombrely. 

As  Wallie  rose  at  last  to  go  he  shook  himself  slightly 
like  one  coming  out  of  a  trance.  He  looked  about  the 
golden  room.     "Gee!" 

"Yes,  but  it  isn't  worth  it,"  said  Hahn,  "after  you've 
got  it." 

"That's  what  they  all  say," — grimly — "after  they've 
got  it." 

The  thing  that  had  been  born  in  Sid  Hahn's  mind  thirty 
years  before  was  now  so  plainly  stamped  on  this  boy's 
face  that  Hahn  was  startled  into  earnestness.  "But  I 
tell  you,  it's  true!     It's  true!" 

"Maybe.  Some  day,  when  I'm  living  in  a  place  like 
this,  I'll  let  you  know  if  you're  right." 

In  less  than  a  year  Wallie  Ascher  was  working  with 
Hahn.  No  one  knev/  his  oflicial  title  or  place.  But,  "Ask 
Wallie.  He'll  know,"  had  become  a  sort  of  slogan  in 
the  office.  He  did  know.  At  twenty-one  his  knowledge 
of  the  theatre  was  infallible  (this  does  not  include  plays 
unproduced.  In  this  no  one  is  infallible)  and  his  feeling 
for  it  amounted  to  a  sixth  sense.  There  was  something  un- 
canny about  the  way  he  could  talk  about  Lotta,  for  exam- 
ple, as  if  he  had  seen  her;  or  Mrs.  Siddons;  or  Mrs.  Fiske, 
when  she  was  Minnie  Maddern,  the  soubrette.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  the  power  to  cast  himself  back  in  the  past. 
No  doubt  it  was  that  pov/cr  which  gave  later  to  his  group 
of  historical  plays  (written  by  him  between  the  ages  of 
thirty  and  thirty-five)  their  convincingness  and  authority. 

When  W^allie  was  about  twenty-three  or  four  years  old 
Sid  Hahn  took  him  abroad  with  him  on  one  of  his  annual 
scouting  trips.  Yearly,  in  the  spring,  Hahn  swooped 
down  upon  London,  Paris,  Berlin,  seeking  that  of  the 
foreign  stage  which  might  be  translated,  fumigated,  des- 
iccated or  otherwise  rendered  suitable  for  home  use. 
He  sent  W^allie  on  to  Vienna,  alone,  on  the  trail  of  a  mus- 
ical comedy  which  was  rumored  to  be  a  second  Merry 
Widotu  in  tunefulness,  chic  and  charm.  Of  course  it 
wasn't.     Merry  Widozus  rarely  repeat  themselves.     Wallie 


i8o  YOU'VE    GOT   TO    BE    SELFISH 

wired  back  to  Hahn,  as  arranged.     The  telegram  is  un- 
important, perhaps,  but  characteristic. 

Mr.  Sid  Hahn, 
Hotel   Savoy, 
London, 

England. 

It's  a  second  all  right  but  not  a  second  Merry 
Widow.  Heard  of  a  winner  in  Budapest  shall  I  go. 
Spent  to-day  from  eleven  to  five  running  around 
the  Ringstrasse  looking  for  mythical  creature  known 
as  the  chic  Viennese.  After  careful  investigation 
wish  to  be  quoted  as  saying  the  species  if  any  is  extinct. 

This,  remember,  was  in  the  year  1913,  B.  W.  VVal- 
lie,  obeying  instructions,  went  to  Budapest,  witnessed  the 
alleged  winner,  found  it  as  advertised,  wired  Hahn  and  was 
joined  by  that  gentleman  three  days  later. 

Budapest,  at  that  time,  was  still  Little  Paris,  only  wick- 
eder. A  city  of  magnificent  buildings,  and  unsalted 
caviar,  and  beautiful  dangerous  women,  and  frumpy  men 
(civilian)  and  dashing  officers  in  red  pants,  and  Cigany 
music,  and  cafes,  and  paprika,  and  two-horse  droshkies. 
Buda,  low  and  flat,  lay  on  one  side;  Pest,  high  and  hilly, 
perched  picturesquely  on  the  other.  Between  the  two 
rolled  the  Blue  Danube  (which  is  yellow). 

It  was  there  that  Hahn  and  Wallie  found  Mizzi  Mar- 
kis.  Wallie  found  her,  really.  Mizzi  Markis,  then  a 
girl  of  nineteen,  was  a  hod-carrier. 

As  Hahn  stepped  from  the  train,  geometrically  square 
in  a  long  ulster  that  touched  his  ears  and  his  heels,  Wallie 
met  him  with  a  bound. 

"Hello,  S.  H. !  Great  to  see  you !  Say,  listen,  I've 
found  something.     I've  found  something  big!" 

Hahn  had  never  seen  the  boy  so  excited.  "Oh, 
shucks !     No  play's  as  good  as  that." 

"Play!     It  isn't  a  play." 

"Why,  you  young  idiot,  you  said  it  was  good!  You  said 
it  was  darn  good !    You  don't  mean  to  tell  me — " 

"Oh,  that!  That's  all  right.  It's  good — or  will  be 
when  you  get  through  with  it." 


EDNA    FERBER  i8i 

"What  you  talking  about  then?  Here,  let's  take  one 
of  these  things  with  two  horses.  Gee,  you  ought  to 
smoke  a  fat  black  seegar  and  wear  a  silk  hat  when  you, 
ride  in  one  of  these !  I  feel  like  a  parade."  He  was  like  a 
boy  on  a  holiday. 

"But  let  me  tell  you  about  this  girl,  won't  you!" 

"Oh,  it's  a  girl!     What's  her  name?     What's  she  do?" 

"Her  name's  Mizzi." 

"Mizzi  what?" 

"I  don't  know.     She's  a  hod-carrier.     She — " 

"That's  all  right,  Wallie.  I'm  here  now.  An  ice  bag 
on  your  head  and  real  quiet  for  two  or  three  days.  You'll 
come  around  fine." 

But  Wallie  was  almost  sulking.  "Wait  till  you  see  her, 
S.  H.     She  sings." 

"Beautiful,  is  she?" 

"No,  not  particularly.     No." 

"Wonderful  voice,  h'm?" 

"N-n-no.  I  wouldn't  say  it  was  what  you'd  call  exactly 
wonderful." 

Sid  Hahn  stood  up  in  the  droshky  and  waved  his  short 
arms  in  windmill  circles.  "Well,  what  the  devil  does  she 
do  then,  that's  so  good!     Carry  bricks?" 

"She  is  good  at  that.  When  she  balances  that  pail  of 
mortar  on  her  head  and  walks  off  with  it,  her  arms  hang- 
ing straight  at  her  sides — " 

But  Sid  Hahn's  patience  was  at  an  end.  "You're  a 
humorist,  )'ou  are.  If  I  didn't  know  you  I'd  say  you  were 
drunk.  FU  bet  you  are,  anyway.  You've  been  eating 
paprika,  raw.     You  make  me  sick." 

Inelegant,  but  expressive  of  his  feelings.  But  Wallie 
only  said,  "You  wait.     You'll  see." 

Sid  Hahn  did  see.  Fie  saw  next  day.  Wallie  woke  him 
out  of  a  sound  sleep  so  that  he  might  sec.  It  was  ten- 
thirty  a.  m.  so  that  his  peevishness  was  unwarranted. 
They  had  seen  the  play  the  night  before  and  Hahn  had 
decided  that  translated  and  with  interpolations  (it  was  a 
comic  opera)  it  would  captivate  New  York.  Then  and 
there  he  completed  the  negotiations  which  Wallie  had 
begun.     Hahn  was  all  for  taking  the  first  train  out,  but 


i82       .    YOU'VE    GOT   TO   BE    SELFISH 

Wallie  was    firm.     "You've    got  to    see    her,  I  tell  you. 
You've  got  to  see  her." 

Their  hotel  faced  the  Corso.  The  Corso  is  a  wide 
promenade  that  runs  along  the  Buda  bank  of  the  Dan- 
ube. Across  the  river,  on  the  hill,  the  royal  palace  looks 
down  upon  the  little  common  people.  In  the  day  the 
monde  and  the  demi-monde  of  Budapest  walked  on  the 
Corso  between  twelve  and  one.  Up  and  down.  Up  and 
down.  The  women,  tall,  dark,  flashing-eyed,  daringly 
dressed.  The  men  sallow,  meager,  and  wearing  those 
trousers  which,  cut  very  wide  and  flappy  at  the  ankles, 
make  them  the  dowdiest  men  in  the  world.  Hahn's  room 
and  Wallie's  were  on  the  second  floor  of  the  hotel,  and  at 
a  corner.  One  set  of  windows  faced  the  Corso,  the  river, 
and  Pest  on  the  hill.  The  other  set  looked  down  upon  a 
new  building  being  erected  across  the  way.  It  was  on 
this   building  that  Mizzi   Markis   worked   as   hod-carrier. 

The  War  accustomed  us  to  a  million  women  in  overalls 
doing  the  work  of  a  million  men.  We  saw  them  ploughing, 
juggling  steel  bars,  making  shells,  running  engines,  stok- 
ing furnaces,  handling  freight.  But  to  these  two  American 
men,  at  that  time,  the  thing  at  which  these  laboring 
women  were  employed  was  dreadful  and   incredible. 

Said  Wallie:  "By  the  time  v.'e've  dressed,  and  had 
breakfast,  and  walked  a  little  and  everything  it'll  be 
almost  noon.  And  noon's  the  time.  After  they've  eaten 
their  lunch.     But  I  want  you  to  see  her  before." 

By  now  his  earnestness  had  impressed  Hahn  who  still 
feigned  an  indifference  he  did  not  feel.  It  was  about  11 :30 
when  Wallie  propelled  him  by  the  arm  to  the  unfinished 
building  across  the  way.    And  there  he  met  Mizzi. 

They  were  just  completing  the  foundation.  The  place 
was  a  busy  hive.  Back  and  forth  with  pails.  Back  and 
forth  with  loads  of  bricks. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  men?"  was  Hahn's  first 
question. 

Wallie  explained.  "They  do  the  dainty  work.  They 
put  one  brick  on  top  of  the  other,  with  a  dab  of  mortar 
between.  But  none  of  the  back-breaking  stuff"  for  them. 
The  women  do  that." 


EDNA    FERBER  183 

And  it  was  so.  They  were  down  in  the  pits  mixing  the 
mortar,  were  the  women.  They  were  carrying  great  pails 
of  it.  They  were  hauling  bricks,  up  one  ladder  and  down. 
They  wore  short  full  skirts  with  a  musical  comedy  chorus 
effect.  Some  of  them  looked  seventy  and  some  seventeen. 
It  was  fearful  work  for  a  woman.  A  keen  wind  was  blow- 
ing across  the  river.     Their  hands  Vv'ere  purple. 

"Pick  Mizzi,"  said  Wallie.  "If  you  can  pick  her  I'll 
know  I'm  right.     But  I   know  it,  anyway." 

Five  minutes  passed.  The  two  men  stood  silent.  "The 
one  with  the  walk  and  the  face,"  said  Hahn,  then.  Which 
wasn't  very  bright  of  him,  because  they  all  walked  and 
they  all  had  faces.  "Going  up  the  pit-ladder  now.  With 
the  pail  on  her  head."  Wallie  gave  a  little  laugh  of 
triumph.  But  then,  Hahn  wouldn't  have  been  Hahn  had 
he  not  been  able  to  pick  a  personality  when  he  saw  it. 

Years  afterward  the  reviewers  always  talked  of  Mizzi's 
walk.  They  called  it  her  superb  carriage.  They  didn't 
know  that  you  have  to  walk  very  straight,  on  the  balls  of 
your  feet,  with  your  hips  firm,  your  stomach  held  in  fiat, 
your  shoulders  back,  your  chest  out,  your  chin  out  and  a 
little  down,  if  you  are  going  to  be  at  all  successful  in  bal- 
ancing a  pail  of  mortar  on  your  head.  After  a  while  that 
walk  becomes  a  habit. 

"Watch  her  with  that  pail,"  said  Wallie. 

Mizzi  filled  the  pail  almost  to  the  top  with  the  heavy 
white  mixture.  She  filled  it  quickly,  expertly.  The  pail, 
filled,  weighed  between  seventeen  and  twenty  kilos.  One 
kilo  is  equal  to  about  two  and  one-fifth  pounds.  The  girl 
threw  down  her  scoop,  stooped,  grasped  the  pail  by  its  two 
handles  and  with  one  superb  unbroken  motion  raised  the 
pail  high  in  her  two  strong  arms  and  placed  it  on  her  head. 
Then  she  breathed  deeply,  once,  set  her  whole  figure, 
turned  stiffly,  and  was  off  with  it.  Sid  Hahn  took  a  long 
breath  as  though  he  himself  had  just  accomplished  the 
gymnastic  feat. 

"Well,  so  far  it's  pretty  good.  But  I  don't  know  that 
the  American  stage  is  clamoring  for  any  hod-carriers  and 
mortar  mixers,  exactly." 

A    whistle    blew.     Twelve     o'clock.     Bricks,     mortar. 


i84  YOU'VE    GOT   TO    BE    SELFISH 

scoops,  shovels  were  abandoned.  The  women  in  their 
great  clod-hopping  shoes  flew  chattering  to  the  tiny  hut 
where  their  lunch  boxes  were  stored.  The  men  followed 
more  slowly,  a  mere  handful  of  them.  Not  one  of  them 
wore  overalls  or  apron.  Out  again  with  their  bundles  and 
boxes  of  food — very  small  bundles.  Very  tiny  boxes. 
They  ate  ravenously  the  bread  and  sausage  and  drank 
their  beer  in  great  gulps.  Fifteen  minutes  after  the  whistle 
had  blown  the  last  crumb  had  vanished. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Wallie.  And  guided  Hahn  nearer. 
He  looked  toward  Mizzi.  Everyone  looked  toward  her. 
Mizzi  stood  up,  brushing  crumbs  from  her  lap.  She  had 
a  little  four-cornered  black  shawl,  folded  cross-wise,  over 
her  head  and  tied  under  her  chin.  Her  face  was  round 
and  her  cheeks  red.  The  shawl,  framing  this,  made  her 
look  young  and  cherubic. 

She  did  not  put  her  hands  on  her  hips,  or  do  any  of 
those  story-book  things.  She  grinned,  broadly,  showing 
strong  white  teeth,  made  strong  and  white  through  much 
munching  of  coarse  black  bread;  not  yet  showing  the 
neglect  common  to  her  class.  She  asked  a  question  in  a 
loud  clear  voice. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Hahn. 

"She's  talking  a  kind  of  hunky  Hungarian,  I  guess. 
The  people  here  won't  speak  German,  did  you  know  that? 
They  hate  it." 

The  crowd  shouted  back  with  one  voice.  They  settled 
themselves  comfortably,  sitting  or  standing.  Their  faces 
held  the  broad  smile  of  anticipation. 

"She  asked  them  what  they  want  her  to  sing.  They 
told  her.     It's  the  same  every  day." 

Mizzi  Markis  stood  there  before  them  in  the  mud, 
and  clay,  and  straw  of  the  building  debris.  And  she  sang 
for  them  a  Hungarian  popular  song  of  the  day  which, 
translated,  sounds  idiotic  and  which  runs  something 
like  this: 

"A  hundred  geese  in  a  row 
At  the  head  of  the  procession 
Going  into  a  coop 
A  stick  over  his  shoulder — " 


EDNA    FERBER  185 

No,  you  can't  do  it.  It  means  less  than  nothing  that 
way,  and  certainly  would  not  warrant  the  shrieks  of  mirth 
that  came  from  the  audience  gathered  round  the  girl. 
Still,  when  you  recall  the  words  of  "A  Hot  Time": 

"When  you  hear  them  bells  go  ting-ling-ling, 
All  join  round  and  sweetly  you  must  sing 
And  when  the  words  am  through  in  the  chorus  all  join  in 
There'll  be  a  hot  time 
In   the  old  tozvn 
Tonight 
My 
Ba- 
By." 

And  yet  it  swept  a  continent,  and  Europe,  and  in  Japan 
they  still  think  it's  our  national  anthem. 

When  she  had  finished  the  crowd  gave  a  roar  of  de- 
light, and  clapped  their  hands,  and  stamped  their  feet, 
and  shouted.  She  had  no  unusual  beauty.  Her  voice 
was  untrained,  though  possessed  of  strength  and  flexibility. 
It  wasn't  what  she  had  sung,  surely.  You  heard  the 
song  in  a  hundred  cafes.  Every  street  boy  whistled  it. 
It  wasn't  that  expressive  pair  of  shoulders,  exactly. 
It  wasn't  a  certain  soothing  tonal  quality  that  made  you 
forget  all  the  things  you'd  been  trying  not  to  remember. 

There  is  something  so  futile  and  unconvincing  about  an 
attempted  description  of  an  intangible  thing.  Some  call 
it  personality;  some  call  it  magnetism;  some  a  rhythm 
sense;  and  some,  genius.  It's  all  these  things,  and  none 
of  them.  Whatever  it  is,  she  had  it.  And  whatever  it  is, 
Sid  Hahn  has  never  failed  to  recognize  it. 

So  now  he  said,  quietly,  "She's  got  it." 

"You  bet  she's  got  it!"  from  Wallie. 

"She's  got  more  than  Renee  Paterne  ever  had,  A  year 
of  training  and  some  clothes — " 

"You  don't  need  to  tell  me.  I'm  in  the  theatrical  busi- 
ness, myself." 

"I'm  sorry,"  stiffly. 

But   Hahn,   too,   was   sorry   immediately.     "You   know 
how  I  am,  Wallie.     I  like  to  run  a  thing  oflf  by  myself. 
What  do  you  know  about  her?     Find  out  anything?" 


i86  YOU'VE    GOT   TO   BE    SELFISH 

"Well,  a  little.  She  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  people. 
And  she's  decent.  Kind  of  a  fierce  kid,  I  guess,  and  fights 
when  offended.  They  say  she's  Polish,  not  Hungarian. 
Her  mother  was  a  peasant.  Her  father — nobody  knows, 
I  had  a  dickens  of  a  time  finding  out  anything.  The  most 
terrible  language  in  the  world — Hungarian.  They'll 
stick  a  'b'  next  to  a  'k'  and  follow  it  up  with  a  'z'  and  put 
an  accent  mark  over  the  whole  business  and  call  it  a  word. 
Last  night  I  followed  her  home.     And  guess  what!" 

"What.^"    said   Hahn,   obligingly. 

"On  her  way  she  had  to  cross  the  big  square — the  one 
they  call  Gisela  Ter,  with  all  the  shops  around  it.  Well, 
when  she  came  to  Gerbeaud's — " 

"What's  Gerbeaud's?" 

"That's  the  famous  tea  room  and  pastry  shop  where  all 
the  swells  go  and  guzzle  tea  with  rum  in  it  and  eat  cakes 
— and  say!  It  isn't  like  our  pastry  that  tastes  like  saw- 
dust covered  with  shaving  soap.     Alarvelous  stuff,  this  is !" 

After  all,  he  was  barely  twenty-four.  So  Hahn  said, 
good-naturedly,  "All  right,  all  right.  We'll  go  there  this 
afternoon  and  eat  an  acre  of  it.  Go  on.  When  she  came 
to  Gerbeaud's — " 

"Well,  when  she  came  to  Gerbeaud's  she  stopped  and 
stood  there,  outside.  There  was  a  strip  of  red  carpet  from 
the  door  to  the  street.  You  know — the  kind  they  have  at 
home  when  there's  a  wedding  on  Fifth  Avenue.  There 
she  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  carpet,  waiting,  her  face, 
framed  in  that  funny  little  black  shawl,  turned  toward 
the  window,  and  the  tail  of  the  little  shawl  kind  of  wag- 
gling in  the  wind.  It  was  cold  and  nippy.  I  waited,  too. 
Finally  I  sort  of  strolled  over  to  her — I  knew  she  couldn't 
any  more  than  knock  me  down — and  said,  kind  of  casual, 
'What's  doing?'  She  looked  up  at  me,  like  a  kid,  in  that 
funny  shawl.  She  knew  I  was  an  Englees'  right  away. 
I  guess  I  must  have  a  fine  open  countenance.  And  I  had 
motioned  toward  the  red  carpet,  and  the  crowded  windows. 
Anyway,  she  opens  up  with  a  regular  burst  of  fireworks 
Hungarian,  in  that  deep  voice  of  hers.  Not  only  that, 
she  acted  it  out.  In  two  seconds  she  had  on  an  imagi- 
nary coronet  and  a  court  train.     And   haughty!     Gosh! 


EDNA    FERBER  187 

I  was  sort  of  stumped,  but  I  said,  'You  don't  say!'  and 
waited  some  more.  And  then  they  flung  open  the  door 
of  the  tea  shop  thing.  At  the  same  moment  up  dashed 
an  equipage— you  couldn't  possibly  call  it  anything  less 
—with  flunkeys  all  over  the  outside,  like  trained  monkeys. 
The  people  inside  the  shop  stood  up,  with  their  mouths 
full  of  cake,  and  out  came  an  old  frump  with  a  terrible 
hat  and  a  fringe.  And  it  was  the  Arch-Duchess,  and  her 
name   is   Josefa." 

"Your  story  interests  me  strangely,  boy,"  Hahn  said, 
grinning,  "but  I  don't  quite  make  you.  Do  Arch-Duch- 
esses go  to  tea  rooms  for  tea?  And  what's  that  got  to  do 
with  our  gifted  little  hod-carrier?" 

"This  Duchess  does.  Believe  me,  those  tarts  are  good 
enough  for  the  Queen  of  Hearts,  let  alone  a  duchess,  no 
matter  how  arch.  But  the  plot  of  the  piece  is  this.  The 
duchess  person  goes  to  Gerbeaud's  about  twice  a  week. 
And  they  always 'spread  a  red  carpet  for  her.  And  Mizzi 
always  manages  to  cut  away  in  time  to  stand  there  in 
front  of  Gerbeaud's  and  see  her  come  out.  She's  a  gor- 
geous mimic,  that  little  kid.  And  though  I  couldn't  under- 
stand a  word  she  said  I  managed  to  get  out  of  it  just  this: 
That  some  day  they're  going  to  spread  a  red  carpet  for 
Mizzi  and  she's  going  to  walk  down  it  in  glory.  If  you'd 
seen  her  face  when  she  said  it,  S.  H.,  you  wouldn't  laugh." 

"I   wouldn't   laugh   anyway,"   said   Hahn,   seriously. 

And  that's  the  true  story  of  Mizzi  Markis's  beginning. 
Few  people  know  it. 

There  they  were,  the  three  of  them.  And  of  the  three, 
Mizzi's  ambition  seemed  to  be  the  fiercest,  the  most  implac- 
able. She  worked  like  a  horse,  cramming  English, 
French,  singing.  In  some  things  she  was  like  a  woman 
of  thirty;  in  others  a  child  of  ten.  Her  gratitude  to  Hahn 
was  pathetic.  No  one  ever  doubted  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her  almost  from  the  first — he  who  had  resisted  the 
professional  beauties  of  three  decades. 

You  know  she  wasn't — and  isn't — a  beauty,  even  in 
that  portrait  of  her  by  Sargent,  with  her  two  black-haired, 
stunning-looking  boys,  one  on  each  side.  But  she  was 
one  of  those  gorgeously  healthy  women  whose  very  pres- 


i88  YOU'VE    GOT   TO   BE    SELFISH 

ence  energizes  those  with  whom  she  comes  in  contact. 
And  then  there  was  about  her  a  certain  bounteousness. 
There's  no  other  word  for  it,  really.  She  reminded  you 
of  those  gracious  figures  you  see  posed  for  pictures 
entitled   "Autumn   Harvest." 

While  she  was  studying  she  had  a  little  apartment  with 
a  middle-aged  woman  to  look  after  her,  and  she  must 
have  been  a  handful.  A  born  cook,  she  was,  and  Hahn 
and  Wallie  used  to  go  there  to  dinner  whenever  she  would 
let  them.  She  cooked  it  herself.  Hahn  would  give  up 
any  engagement  for  a  dinner  at  Mizzi's.  When  he  entered 
her  little  sitting-room  his  cares  seemed  to  drop  from  him. 
She  never  got  over  cutting  bread  as  the  peasant  women 
do  it — the  loaf  held  firmly  against  her  breast,  the  knife 
cutting  toward  her.  Hahn  used  to  watch  her  and  laugh. 
Sometimes  she  would  put  on  the  little  black  head-shawl 
of  her  Budapest  days  and  sing  the  street-song  about  the 
hundred  geese  in  a  row.     A  delightful,  impudent  figure. 

With  the  very  first  English  she  learned  she  told  Hahn 
and  Wallie  that  some  day  they  were  going  to  spread  a  fine 
red  carpet  for  her  to  tread  upon  and  that  all  the  world 
would  gaze  on  her  with  envy.  It  was  in  her  mind  a 
symbol  typifying  all  that  there  was  of  earthly  glory. 

"It'll  be  a  long  time  before  they  do  any  red  carpeting 
for  you,  my  girl,"  Sid  Hahn  had  said. 

She  turned  on  him  fiercely.  "I  will  not  rest — I  will 
not  eat — I  will  not  sleep — I  will  not  love — until  I  have  it." 

Which   was,   of   course,    an   exaggerated    absurdity. 

"Oh,  what  rot!"  Wallie  Asch'er  had  said,  angrily. 
And  then  he  had  thought  of  his  own  symbol  of  success, 
and  his  own  resolve.  And  his  face  had  hardened.  Sid 
Hahn  looked  at  the  two  of  them;  very  young,  both  of 
them,  very  gifted,  very  electric.  Very  much  in  love  with 
each  other,  though  neither  would  admit  it  even  in  their 
own  minds.  Both  their  stern  young  faces  set  toward 
the  goal  which  they  thought  meant  happiness. 

Now,  Sid  Hahn  had  never  dabbled  in  this  new  stuff 
— you  know — complexes  and  fixed  ideas  and  images. 
But  he  was  a  very  wise  man,  and  he  did  know  to  what 
an  extent  these  two  v^^ere  possessed  by  ambition  for  that 
which  they  considered  desirable. 


EDNA    FERBER  189 

He  must  have  thought  It  over  for  weeks.  He  was  i" 
love  with  Mizzi,  remember.  And  his  fondness  for  Walhe 
was  a  thing  almost  paternal.  He  watched  these  two  for 
a  long,  long  time,  a  queer  grim  little  smile  on  his  gargoyle 
face.  And  then  his  mind  was  made  up.  He  had  always 
had  his  own  way.  He  must  have  had  a  certain  terrible 
enjoyment  in  depriving  himself  of  the  one  thing  he 
wanted  most  in  the  world — the  one  thing  he  wanted  more 
than  he  had  ever  wanted  anything. 

He  decided  that  Destiny— a  ponderous,  slow-moving 
creature  at  best — needed  a  little  prodding  from  him. 
His   plans   were   simple,   as   all   effective   plans    are. 

Mizzi  had  been  in  America  just  a  year  and  a  half.  Her 
development  was  amazing,  but  she  was  far  from  being 
the  finished  product  that  she  became  in  later  years.  Hahn 
decided  to  chance  it.  Mizzi  had  no  fear  of  audiences. 
He  had  tried  her  out  on  that.  An  audience  stimulated 
her.     She  took  it  to  her  breast.     She  romped  with  it. 

He  found  a  play  at  last.  A  comedy,  with  music. 
It  was  frankly  built  for  Mizzi.  He  called  Wallie  Ascher 
into  his  office. 

"I  wouldn't  try  her  out  here  for  a  million.  New  York's 
too  fly.  Some  little  thmg  might  be  wrong — you  know 
how  they  are.  And  all  the  rest  would  go  for  nothing. 
The  kindest  audience  in  the  world — when  they  like  you. 
And  the  crudest  in  the  world  when  they  don't.  We'll  go 
on  the  road  for  two  weeks.  Then  we'll  open  at  the 
Blackstone  in  Chicago.  I  think  this  girl  has  got  more 
real  genius  than  any  woman  since — since  Bernhardt  in 
her  prime.  Five  years  from  now  she  won't  be  singing. 
She'll  be  acting.     And  it'll  be  acting." 

"Aren't  you  forcing  things  just  a  little?"  asked  Wallie, 
coolly. 

"Oh,  no.  No.  Anyway,  it's  just  a  try-out.  By  the 
way,  Wallie,  Fll  probably  be  gone  almost  a  month.  If 
things  go  pretty  well  in  Chicago  I'll  run  over  to  French 
Lick  for  eight  or  ten  days  and  see  if  I  can't  get  a 
little  of  this  stiffness  out  of  my  old  bones.  Will  you  do 
something  for   me?" 

"Sure." 


190  YOU'VE    GOT   TO    BE    SELFISH 

"Pack  a  few  clothes,  and  go  up  to  my  place  and  live 
there,  will  you?  The  Jap  stays  on,  anyway.  The  last 
time  I  left  it  alone  things  went  wrong.  You'll  be  doing 
me  a  favor.  Take  it  and  play  the  piano,  and  have  your 
friends  in,  and  boss  the  Jap  around.  He's  stuck  on 
you,   anyway.     Says   he   likes   to   hear   you   play." 

He  stayed  away  six  weeks.  And  any  one  who  knows 
him  knows  what  hardship  that  was.  He  loved  New  York, 
and  his  own  place,  and  his  comfort,  and  his  books;  and 
hotel  food  gave  him  hideous  indigestion. 

Mizzi's  first  appearance  was  a  moderate  success.  It 
was  nothing  like  the  sensation  of  her  later  efforts.  She 
wasn't  ready,  and  Hahn  knew  it.  Mizzi  and  her  middle- 
aged  woman  companion  were  installed  at  the  Blackstone 
Hotel,  which  Is  just  next  door  to  the  Blackstone  Theatre, 
as  any  one  is  aware  who  knows  Chicago.  She  was  adver- 
tised as  the  Polish  comedienne  Mizzi  Markis,  and  the 
announcements  hinted  at  her  royal  though  remote  ances- 
try. And  on  the  night  the  play  opened,  as  Mizzi  stepped 
from  the  entrance  of  her  hotel  on  her  way  to  the  stage 
door  just  forty  or  fifty  feet  away,  there  she  saw  stretched 
on  the  pavement  a  scarlet  path  of  soft-grained  carpet  for 
her  feet  to  tread.  From  the  steps  of  the  hotel  to  the 
stage  door  of  the  theatre,  there  it  lay,  a  rosy  line  of 
splendor. 

The  newspaper  played  It  up  as  a  publicity  stunt.  Every 
night,  while  the  play  lasted,  the  carpet  was  there.  It  was 
rolled  up  when  the  stage  door  closed  upon  her.  It  was 
unrolled  and  spread  again  when  she  came  out  after  the 
performance.  Hahn  never  forgot  her  face  when  she  first 
saw  it  and  realized  its  significance.  The  look  was  there 
on  the  second  night,  and  on  the  third,  but  after  that  it 
faded,  vanished,  and  never  came  again.  Mizzi  had  tasted 
of  the  golden  fruit  and  found  it  dry  and  profitless,  without 
nourishment  or  sweetness. 

The  show  closed  in  the  midst  of  a  moderate  success. 
It  closed  abruptly,  without  warning.  Together  they  came 
back  to  New  York.  Just  outside  New  York  Hahn 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Mizzi's  drawing  room  and  stuck 
his  round  ugly  face  in  at  the  opening. 


EDNA   FERBER  191 

"Let's   surprise  Wallie,"   he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Mizzi,  listlessly. 

"He  doesn't  know  the  show's  closed.  We'll  take  a 
chance  on  his  being  home  for  dinner.  Unless  you're  too 
tired." 

"I'm  not  tired." 

The  Jap  admitted  them,  and  Hahn  cut  off  his  staccato 
exclamations  with  a  quick  and  smothering  hand.  They 
tiptoed  into  the  big,  gracious,  lamp-lighted   room. 

Wallie  was  seated  at  the  piano.  He  had  on  a  silk 
dressing-gown  with  a  purple  cord.  One  of  those  dressing- 
gowns  you  see  in  the  haberdashers'  windows,  and  wonder 
who  buys  them.  He  looked  very  tall  in  it,  and  rather 
distinguished  and  a  little  Favershammy,  but  not  quite 
happy.  He  was  playing  as  they  came  In.  They  said, 
"Boo!"  or  something  idiotic  like  that.  He  stood  up. 
And  his  face! 

"Why,  hello!"  he  said,  and  came  forward,  swiftly, 
"Hello!  Hello!" 

"Hello!"  Hahn  answered.  "Not  to  say  hello-hello." 
Wallie  looked  at  the  girl.     "Hello,  Mizzi." 

"Hello,"  said  Mizzi. 

"For  God's  sake,  stop  saying  hello!"  roared  Hahn. 

They  both  looked  at  him  absently,  and  then  at  each 
other  again. 

Hahn  flung  his  coat  and  hat  at  the  Jap  and  rubbed  his 
palms  briskly  together. 

"Well,  how  did  you  like  it?"  he  said,  and  slapped 
Wallie  on  the  back.  "How'd  you  like  it — the  place  I 
mean,  and  the  Jap  boy  and   all?     H'm?" 

"Very  much,"  Wallie  answered,  formally.     "Very  nice." 

"You'll  be  having  one  of  your  own  some  day  soon. 
That's   sure." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Wallie,  indifferently. 

"I  would  like  to  go  home,"  said  Mizzi,  suddenly,  in  her 
precise  English. 

At  that  Wallie  leaped  out  of  his  lounging  coat.  "I'll 
take  you!     I'll — I'll  be  glad  to  take  you." 

Hahn  smiled  a  little,  ruefully.  "We  were  going  to  have 
dinner  here,  the  three  of  us.     But  if  you're  tired,  Mizzi, 


192  YOU'VE  GOT  TO  BE  SELFISH 

I'm  not  so  chipper  myself,  when  it  comes  to  that."  He 
looked  about  the  room,  gratefully.  "It's  good  to  be 
home." 

Wallie,  hat  in  hand,  was  waiting  in  the  doorway. 
Mizzi,  turning  to  go,  suddenly  felt  two  hands  on  her 
shoulders.  She  was  whirled  around.  Hahn — he  had  to 
stand  on  tiptoe  to  do  it — kissed  her  once  on  the  mouth, 
hard.  Then  he  gave  her  a  little  shove  toward  the  door. 
"Tell  Wallie  about  the  red  carpet,"  he  said. 

"I  will  not,"  Mizzi  replied,  very  distinctly.  "I  hate  red 
carpets." 

Then  they  were  gone.  Hahn  hardly  seemed  to  notice 
that  they  had  left.  There  were,  I  suppose,  the  proper 
number  of  good-byes,  and  see  you  to-morrows,  and 
thank-yous. 

Sid  Hahn  stood  there  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  very  small,  very  squat,  rather  gnomelike,  but  not 
at  all  funny.  He  went  over  to  the  piano  and  seated  him- 
self, his  shoulders  hunched,  his  short  legs  clearing  the 
floor.  With  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  he  began 
to  pick  out  a  little  tune.  Not  a  sad  little  tune.  A  Hun- 
garian street  song.  He  did  it  atrociously.  The  stubby 
forefinger  came  down  painstakingly  on  the  white  keys. 
Suddenly  the  little  Jap  servant  stood  in  the  doorway. 
Hahn  looked  up.     His  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

"God!     I  wish  I  could  play!"  he  said. 


Metropolitan  Magazine 

"CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

BY 

BOOTH    TARKINGTON 


"CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN"  ' 
By  BOOTH  TARKINGTON 

MR.  AND  AIRS.  BAXTER,  having  walked  a  hot  half 
mile  from  church,  drooped  thankfully  into  wicker 
chairs  upon  their  front  porch,  though  their  ten-year-old 
daughter,  Jane,  who  had  accompanied  them,  immediately 
darted  away,  swinging  her  hat  by  its  ribbon  and  skipping 
as  lithesomely  as  if  she  had  just  come  forth  upon  a  cool 
morning. 

'T  don't  know  how  she  does  it!"  her  father  moaned, 
glancing  after  her  and  drying  his  forehead  temporarily 
upon  a  handkerchief.  "That  would  merely  kill  me  dead, 
after  walking  in  this  heat." 

Then,  for  a  time,  the  two  were  content  to  sit  In  silence, 
nodding  to  occasional  acquaintances  who  passed  in  the 
desultory  after-church  procession.  Mr.  Baxter  fanned 
himself  with  sporadic  little  bursts  of  energy  which  made 
his  straw  hat  creak,  and  Mrs.  Baxter  sighed  with  the  heat, 
and  gently  rocked  her  chair. 

But,  as  a  group  of  five  young  people  passed  along  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  Mr.  Baxter  abruptly  stopped 
fanning  himself,  and,  following  the  direction  of  his  gaze, 
Mrs.  Baxter  ceased  to  rock.  In  half-completed  attitudes 
they  leaned  slightly  forward,  sharing  one  of  those  pauses 
of  parents  who  unexpectedly  behold  their  offspring. 

The  oITspring,  In  this  case,  was  their  son,  William. 

"M}-  soul!"  said  William's  father.  "Hasn't  that  girl 
gone  home  yd?" 

"He  looks  pale  to  me,"  Mrs.  Baxter  murmured  absently. 
"I  don't  think  he  seems  at  all  well,  latclv." 

During  the  seventeen  years  since  the  arrival  of  William, 
their  first  born,  Mr.  Baxter  had  gradually  learned  not  to 

*  Copyright  by  Metropolian  Magazine 


196  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

protest  anxieties  of  this  kind,  unless  he  desired  to  argue 
with  no  prospect  of  ever  getting  a  decision. 

"Hasn't  she  got  any  home?"  he  demanded  testily. 
"Isn't  she  ever  going  to  quit  visiting  the  Parchers  and 
let  people  have  a  little  peace?" 

Mrs.  Baxter  disregarded  this  outburst  as  he  had  dis- 
regarded her  remark  about  William's  pallor,  "You  mean 
Miss  Pratt?"  she  inquired  dreamily,  her  eyes  following 
the  progress  of  her  son.  "No,  he  really  doesn't  look 
well  at  all." 

"Is  she  going  to  visit  the  Parchers  all  summer?"  Mr. 
Baxter  insisted. 

"She  already  has,  almost,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter. 

"Look  at  that  boy!"  the  father  grumbled.  "Mooning 
along  with  those  other  moon-calves — can't  even  let  her  go 
to  church  alone!  I  wonder  how  many  weeks  of  time, 
counting  it  out  in  hours,  he's  wasted  that  way  this  sum- 
mer?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  You  see,  he  never  goes  there  in 
the  evening  now." 

"What  of  that?  He's  there  all  day,  isn't  he?  What 
do  they  find  to  talk  about?  That's  the  mystery  to  me! 
Day  after  day,  hours  after  hours —  My  soul!  What 
do  they  say?" 

Mrs.  Baxter  laughed  indulgently.  "People  are  always 
wondering  that  about  the  other  ages.  Poor  Willie!  I 
think  that  a  great  deal  of  the  time  their  conversation 
would  be  probably  about  as  general  as  it  is  now.  You 
see  Willie  and  Joe  Bullitt  are  walking  one  on  each  side 
of  Miss  Pratt,  and  Johnnie  Watson  has  to  walk  behind 
with  May  Parcher.  Joe  and  Johnnie  are  there  about 
as  much  as  Willie  is,  and  of  course  it's  often  his  turn 
to  be  nice  to  May  Parcher.  He  hasn't  many  chrnces  to 
be  tete-a-tete  with  Miss  Pratt." 

"Well,  she  ought  to  go  home.  I  want  that  boy  to  get 
back  into  his  senses.     He's  awful !" 

"I  think  she  is  going  soon,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter.  "The 
Parchers  are  to  have  a  dance  for  her  Friday  night,  and 
I  understand  there's  a  floor  to  be  laid  in  the  yard  and 
great  things.     It's  a  farewell  party." 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  197 

"That's  one  mercy,  anyhow!" 

"And  if  you  wonder  what  they  say,"  she  resumed, 
'•why,  probably  they're  all  talking  about  the  party.  And 
when  Willie  is  alone  with  her — well,  what  does  anybody 
say?"  Mrs.  Baxter  interrupted  herself  to  laugh.  "Jane, 
for  instance — she's  always  fascinated  by  that  darkey, 
Genesis,  when  he's  at  work  here  in  the  yard,  and  they 
have  long,  long  talks;  I've  seen  them  from  the  window. 
What  on  earth  do  you  suppose  they  talk  about?  That's 
where  Jane  is  now.  She  knew  I  told  Genesis  I'd  give 
him  something  if  he'd  come  and  freeze  the  ice-cream  for 
us  to-day,  and  when  we  got  here  she  heard  the  freezer 
and  hopped  right  around  there.  If  you  went  out  to  the 
back  porch  you'd  find  them  talking  steadily — but  what 
on  earth  about  I  couldn't  guess  to  save  my  life!" 

And  yet  nothing  could  have  been  simpler:  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  Jane  and  Genesis  were  talking  about  society. 
That  is  to  say,  their  discourse  was  not  sociologic; 
rather  it  was  of  the  frivolous  and  elegant.  Watteau  pre- 
vailed with  them  over  John  Stuart  Mill — in  a  word,  they 
spoke  of  the  beau  mondc. 

Genesis  turned  the  handle  of  the  freezer  with  his  left 
hand,  allowing  his  right  the  freedom  of  gesture  which 
was  an  intermittent  necessity  when  he  talked.  In  the 
matter  of  dress.  Genesis  had  always  been  among  the  most 
informal  of  his  race,  but  to-day  there  was  a  change  almost 
unnerving  to  the  Caucasian  eye.  He  wore  a  balloonish 
suit  of  purple^  strangely  scalloped  at  pocket  and  cuff, 
and  more  strangely  decorated  with  lines  of  small  para- 
site buttons,  in  color  blue,  obviously  buttons  of  leisure. 
His  bulbous  new  shoes  flashed  back  yellow  fire  at  the  em- 
barrassed sun,  and  his  collar  (for  he  had  gone  so  far)  sent 
forth  other  sparkles,  playing  upon  a  polished  surface  over 
an  inner  graining  of  soot.  Beneath  it  hung  a  simple, 
white,  soiled  evening  tie,  draped  in  a  manner  unintended 
by  its  manufacturer,  and  heavily  overburdened  by  a  green 
glass  medallion  of  the  Emperor  Tiberius,  set  in  brass. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Genesis.  "Now  I'm  in  'at  Swim — flvin' 
roun'  ev'y  even'  wif  all  lem  blue-vein  people — I  say, 
*Mus'  go  buy  me  some  blue-vein  clo'es!     Ef  I'm  go'n 


198  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

a  start,  might's  well  start  high!'  So  firs',  I  buy  me 
thishere  gol'  necktie  pin  wi'  thishere  lady's  face  carved 
out  o'  green  di'mon,  sittin'  in  the  middle  all  'at  gol'.  'Nen 
I  buy  me  pair  Royal  King  shoes.  I  got  a  frien'  o'  mine, 
thishere  Blooie  Bowers;  he  say  Royal  King  shoes  same 
kineo'  shoes  he  wear,  an'  I  walk  straight  in  'at  sto'  where 
they  keep  'em  at.  'Don'  was'e  my  time  showin'  me  no 
ole-time  shoes,'  I  say.  'Run  out  some  them  big,  yella, 
lump-toed  Royal  Kings  befo'  my  eyes,  an'  firs'  pair  fit 
me  I  pay  price,  an'  wear  em'  right  off  on  me !'  'Nen  I 
got  me  thishere  suit  o'  clo'es —  oh,  oh!  Sign  on  'em  in 
window:  'Ef  you  wish  to  be  bes'-dress'  man  in  town  take 
me  home  fer  six  dolluhs  ninety-sevum  cents.'  "At's  kine  o' 
suit  Genesis  need,'  I  say.  'Ef  Genesis  go'n  a  start  dressin' 
high,  might's  well  start  top!'" 

Jane  nodded  gravely,  comprehending  the  reasonableness 
of  this  view.  "What  made  you  decide  to  start,  Genesis?" 
she  asked  earnestly.  "I  mean,  how  did  it  happen  you 
began  to  get  this  way?" 

"Well,  suh,  't  all  come  'bout  right  like  kine  o'  slidin' 
Into  it  'stid  o'  hoppin'  an'  jumpin'.  I'z  spen'  the  even' 
at  'at  lady's  house,  Fanny,  what  cook  nex'  do',  las'  year. 
Well,  suh,  'at  lady  Fanny,  she  quit  privut  cookin',  she 
kaytliss — " 

"She's  what?"  Jane  asked.  "What's  that  mean,  Genesis 
— kaytliss?" 

"She  kaytuhs,"  he  exclaimed.  "Ef  It's  a  man  you  call 
him  kaytuh;  ef  it's  a  lady  she's  a  kaytliss.  She  does  kay- 
tun  fer  all  lem  blue-vein  fam'lies  In  town.  She  make  re- 
feshmuns,  bring  waituhs — 'at's  kaytun.  You  maw  give 
big  dinnuh,  she  have  Fanny  kaytuh,  an'  don't  take  no 
trouble  'tall   herself.     Fanny  take   all   'at  trouble." 

"I  see,"  said  Jane.  "But  I  don't  see  how  her  bein'  a 
kaytliss  started  you  to  dressin'  so  high.  Genesis." 

"Thishere  way,  Fanny  say,  'Look  here,  Genesis,  I  got 
big  job  t'morra  night  an'  Fm  man  short,  'count  o'  havin* 
to  have  a  'nouncer.' " 

"A  what?" 

"Fanny  talk  jes'  that  way.  Goin'  be  big  dinnuh 
potty,  an'  thishere  blue-vein  fam'ly  tell  Fanny  they  want 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  199 

whole  lot  of  extry  sploogin';  tell  her  put  fine  lookin 
cullud  man  stan'  by  drawin'-room  do' — ask  ev'ybody 
name  an'  holler  out  whatever  name  they  say,  jes'  as 
they  walk  in.  Thishere  fam'ly  say  they  goin'  show 
what's  what,  'nis  town,  an'  they  boun'  Fanny  go  git  'em 
a  'nouncer.  'Well,  what's  mattuh  you  doin'  'at  'noun- 
cin'r'  Fanny  say.  'Who — me:'  I  tell  her.  'Yes,  you 
kin  too!'  she  say,  an'  she  say  len'  me  'at  waituh 
suit  yoosta  b'long  ole  Henry  Gimlet  what  die'  when  he 
owin'  Fanny  sixteen  dolluhs — an'  Fanny  tuck  an'  keep 
'at  waituh  suit.  She  use  'at  suit  on  extry  waituhs  when 
she  got  some  on  her  hands  w^hat  ain'  got  no  waituh 
suit.  'You  w'ear  'at  suit,'  Fanny  say,  'an'  you  be  good 
'nouncer,  'cause  you'  a  fine,  big  man,  an'  got  a  big  gran' 
voice;  nen  you  learn  befo'  long  be  a  waituh,  Genesis,  'an 
git  dolluh  an'  half  ev'y  even'  you  waitin',  'sides  all  'at 
money  you  make  cuttin'  grass  daytime.'  Well,  suh, 
I'z  Stan'  up  doin'  'at  'nouncin'  ve'y  nex'  night.  White 
lady  an'  ge'lmun  walk  todes  my  do',  I  step  up  to  'em — I 
step  up  to  'em  thisaway."  Here  Genesis  found  it  pleas- 
ant to  present  the  scene  with  some  elaboration.  He 
dropped  the  handle  of  the  freezer,  rose,  assumed  a  stately 
but  ingratiating  expression  and  "stepped  up"  to  the 
imagined  couple,  using  a  pacing  and  rhythmic  gait — 
a  conservative  prance,  which  plainly  indicated  the 
simultaneous  operation  of  an  orchestra.  Then  bending  gra- 
ciously, as  though  the  persons  addressed  were  of  dwarfish 
stature,  "  'Scuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  kin  I  please  be  so 
p'lite  as  to  'quiah  you'  name?"  For  a  moment  he  listened 
attentively,  then  nodded,  and,  returning  with  the  same 
aristocratic  undulations  to  an  imaginary  doorway  near 
the  freezer,  "Alisto  an'  Alissuz  Orlosko  Rlnktuml"  he 
proclaimed  sonorously. 

"Who?"  cried  Jane,  fascinated.     "Genesis,  'nounce  that 
again,  right  away!" 

Genesis  heartily  complied. 

"Misto  an'  Missuz  Orlosko  Rinktum!"  he  bawled. 

"Was  that  really  their  names?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"Well,    I   kine   o'    fergit,"   Genesis    admitted,    resuming 
his  work  with  the  freezer.     "Seem  like  I  rickalect  some- 


200  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

body  got  name  good  deal  like  what  I  say,  'cause  some 
mighty  blue-vein  names  at  "at  dinnuh-potty,  yes-suh! 
But  I  on'y  git  to  be  'nouncer  one  time,  'cause  Fanny 
tellin'  me  nex'  fam'ly  have  dinnuh-potty  make  heap  o' 
fun.  Say  I  done  my  'nouncin'  good  as  kin  be,  but  say 
what's  use  hoUer'n  names  jes'  fer  some  the  neighbors  or 
they  own  aunts  an'  uncles  to  walk  in,  when  ev'rybody 
awready  knows  'em?  So  Fanny  pummote  me  to  waituh, 
an'  I  roun'  right  in  amongs'  big  doin's  mos'  ev'y  night. 
Pass  ice-cream,  lemonade,  lemon-ice,  cake,  sammitches. 
'Lemme  han'  you  lil  mo'  chicken-salad,  ma'am' — '  'Low  me 
be  so  kine  as  to  git  you  f'esh  cup  coffee,  suh' — 's  way 
ole  Genesis  talkin'  ev'y  even'  'ese  days !" 

Jane    looked    at    him    thoughtfully.     "Do    you    like    it 
better  than  cuttin'  grass.  Genesis?"  she  asked. 

He  paused  to  consider. 

"Yes'm — when  ban'  play  all  lem  tunes!     My  goo'ness, 
do  soun'  gran'!" 

"You  can't  do  it  to-night,  though.  Genesis,"  said  Jane. 
"You  haf  to  be  quiet  on  Sunday  nights,  don't  you?" 

"Yes'm.     Ain'  got  no  mo'  kaytun  till  nex'  Friday  even'." 

"Oh,  I  bet  that's  the  party  for  Miss  Pratt  at  Air.  Par- 
cher's!"   cried   Jane.     "Didn't   I   guess    right?" 

"Yes'm.     I  reckon  Fm  a  go'n  a  see  one  you'  fam'ly  'at 
night;  see  him  dancin' — wait  on  him  at  refeshmuns." 

Jane's  expression  became  even  more  serious  than  usual. 
"Willie?     I  don't  know  whether  he's  goin',  Genesis." 

"Lan'  name!"  Genesis  exclaimed.  "He  die  ef  he  don' 
git  znvite  to  'at  ball !" 

"Oh,  he's  invited,"  said  Jane.  "Only  I  think  maybe 
he  won't  go." 

"My  goo'ness!     Why  ain't  he  goin'?" 

Jane  looked  at  her  friend  studiously  before  reply- 
ing. "Well,  it's  a  secret,"  she  said,  finally,  "but  it's  a 
very  inter'sting  one,  an'  Fll  tell  you  if  you  never  tell." 

"Yes'm;  I  ain't  tellin'  nobody." 

Jane  glanced  round,  then  stepped  a  little  closer  and 
told  the  secret  with  the  solemnity  it  deserved.  "Well, 
when  Miss  Pratt  first  came  to  visit  Miss  May  Parcher, 
Willie  used  to  keep  papa's  evening  clo'es  in  his  window- 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  201 

seat,  an'  mamma  wondered  what  had  become  of  'em. 
Then,  after  dinner,  he'd  slip  up  there  an'  put  'eni  on  him, 
an'  go  out  through  the  kitchen  an'  call  on  Miss  Pratt. 
Then  mamma  found  'em,  and  she  thought  he  oughtn't  to  do 
that,  so  she  didn'  tell  him  or  anything,  an'  she  didn't 
even  tell  papa,  but  she  had  the  tailor  make  'em  ever  an' 
ever  so  much  bigger,  'cause  they  were  gettin'  too  tight  for 
papa.  An',  well,  so  after  that,  even  if  Willie  could  get  'em 
out  o'  mamma's  clo'es  closet  where  she  keeps  'em  now, 
he'd  look  so  funny  in  'em  he  couldn't  wear  'em.  Well, 
an'  then  he's  never  been  to  see  Miss  Pratt  in  the  evening 
one  single  time  since  then  because  mamma  says  after  he 
started  to  go  there  in  that  suit  he  couldn't  go  without  it, 
or  maybe  Miss  Pratt  or  the  other  ones  that's  in  love  of 
her  would  think  it  was  pretty  queer,  and  maybe  kind  of 
expeck  it  was  papa's  all  the  time.  Mamma  says  she  thinks 
Willie  must  have  worried  a  good  deal  over  reasons  to  say 
why  he'd  always  go  in  the  daytime  after  that,  an' 
never  came  in  the  evening,  an'  now  they're  goin'  to  have 
this  party,  an'  she  says  he's  been  gettin'  paler  an'  paler 
every  day  since  he  heard  about  it.  Mamma  says  he's 
pale  some,  because  Miss  Pratt's  goin'  away,  but  she  thinks 
it's  a  good  deal  more  because,  well,  if  he  would  wear 
those  evening  clo'es  just  to  go  callin',  how  would  It  be 
to  go  to  that  party  an'  not  have  any?  That's  what 
mamma  thinks — an'.  Genesis,  you  promised  you'd  never 
tell  as  long  as  you  lived !" 

"Yes'm.  I  ain'  tellin',"  Genesis  chuckled.  "Fm  a 
go'n  a  git  me  one  nem  waituh  suits  befo'  long,  myse'f, 
so's  I  kin  quit  wearin'  'at  ole  Henry  Gimlet  suit  what 
b'longs  to  Fanny,  an'  have  me  a  privut  suit  o'  my  own. 
They's  a  secon'  han'  sto',  ovuh  on  the  avynoo,  where 
they  got  swaller-tail  suits  all  way  f'um  sevum  doUuhs  to 
nineteen  doUuhs  an'  ninety-eight  cents.     Fm  a — " 

Jane  started,  interrupting  him.  "Sh,"  she  whispered, 
laying  a  finger  warningly  upon  her  lips.  William  had 
entered  the  yard  at  the  back  gate,  and,  approaching  over 
the  lawn,  had  arrived  at  the  steps  of  the  porch  before 
Jane  perceived  him.  She  gave  him  an  apprehensive 
look,  but  he  passed  into  the  house  absent-mindedly,  not 


202  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

even  glancing  at  Clematis,  the  humble  and  faithful  dog 
in  attendance  upon  Genesis — and  that  was  remarkable, 
because  the  sight  of  Clematis  was  nearly  always  but 
too  obviously  painful  to  William.  Clematis  was  so  min- 
gled a  dog  that  he  shook  one's  faith  in  any  defmiteness 
of  design  on  the  part  of  Nature:  it  hurt  William  to  see 
him  about  the  premises,  and  William  showed  his  feelings, 
for  he  feared  that  people  might  think  Clemate  belonged  to 
him  or  to  his  family.  But  to-day  he  passed  without  flinch- 
ing— and  Mrs  Baxter  was  right:  William  did  look  pale. 
"I  guess  he  didn't  hear  us,"  said  Jane,  when  he  had 
disappeared  into  the  interior.  "He  acks  awful  funny!" 
she  added  thoughtfully.  "First  when  he  was  in  love 
with  Miss  Pratt,  he'd  be  mad  about  somep'm'  almost 
every  minute  he  was  home.  Couldn't  anybody  say  any- 
thing  to  him  but  he'd  just  behave  as  if  it  was  awful,  an' 
then  if  you'd  see  him  out  walkin'  with  Miss  Pratt,  well, 
he'd  look  like — like — "  Jane  paused;  her  eye  fell  upon 
Clematis  and  by  a  happy  inspiration  she  was  able  to 
complete  her  simile  with  remarkable  accuracy.  "He'd 
look  like  the  way  Clematis  looks  at  people!  That's 
just  exackly  the  way  he'd  look,  Genesis,  when  he  was 
walkin'  with  Miss  Pratt;  an'  then  when  he  was  home  he 
got  so  quiet  he  couldn't  answer  questions  an'  wouldn't 
hear  what  anybody  said  to  him  at  table  or  anywhere, 
an'  papa'd  just  almost  bust.  Mamma  'n'  papa'd  talk 
an'  talk  about  it,  an'  " — she  lowered  her  voice — "an'  I 
an'  sometimes  he'd  sit  in  there  without  any  light,  or  he'd 
hardly  ever  get  mad  any  more;  he'd  just  sit  in  his  room, 
an'  sometimes  he'd  sit  in  there  without  any  light,  or  he'd 
sit  out  in  the  yard  all  by  himself  all  evening  maybe,  an' 
th'  other  evening  after  I  was  In  bed  I  heard  'em,  an' 
papa  said — well,  this  Is  what  papa  told  mamma."  And 
again  lowering  her  voice,  she  proffered  the  quotation 
from  her  father  In  a  tone  somewhat  awestruck.  "Papa 
said,  by  Gosh!  if  he  ever  'a'  thought  a  son  of  his  could 
make  such  a  Word  idiot  of  himself  he  almost  wished 
we'd  both  been  girls !" 

Having  completed  this  report  In  a  violent  whisper  Jane 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  203 

nodded  repeatedly,  for  emphasis,  and  Genesis  shook  his 
head  to  show  that  he  was  as  deeply  Impressed  as  she 
wished  him  to  be.  "I  guess,"  she  added,  after  a  pause, 
"I  guess  Willie  didn't  hear  anything  we  talked  about 
him,  or  clo'es,  or  anything." 

She  was  mistaken  in  part.  William  had  caught  no 
reference  to  himself,  but  he  had  overheard  something, 
and  he  was  now  alone  in  his  room,  thinking  about  it 
almost  feverishly.  "A  secon'  han'  sto',  ovuh  on  the  avynoo, 
where  they  got  swaller-tail  suits  all  way  frum  sevem  doUuhs 
to  nineteen  dolluhs  an'  ninety-eight  cents." 

.  .  .  Civilization  is  responsible  for  certain  longings  in 
the  breast  of  man — artificial  longings,  but  sometimes  as 
poignant  as  hunger  and  thirst.  Of  these  the  strongest 
are  those  of  the  maid  for  che  bridal  veil,  of  the  lad  for 
long  trousers,  and  of  the  youth  for  a  tailed  coat  of  state. 
To  the  gratification  of  this  last,  few  of  the  more  hushed 
joys  in  life  are  comparable.  Indulged  youths,  too  rich, 
can  know,  to  the  unctuous  full,  neither  the  longing  nor 
the  gratification;  but  one  such  as  William,  in  "moderate 
circumstances,"  is  privileged  to  pant  for  his  first  even- 
ing clothes  as  the  hart  panteth  after  the  water-brook — 
and  sometimes,  to  pant  in  vain.  Also,  this  was  a  crisis 
in  William's  life:  in  addition  to  his  yearning  for"  such  ap- 
parel, he  was  racked  by  a  passionate  urgency. 

As  Jane  had  so  precociously  understood,  unless  he 
should  somehow  manage  to  obtain  the  proper  draperies 
he  could  not  go  to  the  farewell  dance  for  Miss  Pratt. 
Other  unequipped  boys  could  go  in  t>heir  ordinary  "best 
clothes,"  but  William  could  not;  for,  alack!  he  had 
dressed  too  well  too  soon! 

He  was  in  desperate  case.  The  sorrow  of  the  approach- 
ing great  departure  was  but  the  heavier  because  It  had 
been  so  long  deferred.  To  William  it  had  seemed  that 
this  flower-strewn  summer  could  actually  end  no  more 
than  he  could  actually  die,  but  Time  had  begun  its  awful 
lecture,  and  even  Seventeen  was  listening.  Aliss  Pratt, 
that  magic  girl,  was  going  home. 

To   the    competent    twenties,    hundreds    of    miles    sug- 


204  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

gesting  no  impossibilities,  such  departures  may  be  rend- 
ing but  not  tragic.  Implacable,  the  difference  to  Seven- 
teen! Miss  Pratt  was  going  home,  and  Seventeen  could 
not  follow;  it  could  only  mourn  upon  the  lonely  shore, 
tracing  little  angelic  footprints  left  in  the  sand.  To  Seven- 
teen such  a  departure  is  final;  it  is  a  vanishing. 

And  now  it  seemed  possible  that  William  might  be 
deprived  even  of  the  last  romantic  consolations:  of  the 
"last  waltz  together,"  of  the  last,  last  "listening  to  music 
in  the  moonlight  together";  of  all  those  sacred  lasts  of 
the  "last  evening  together."  And  this  was  a  thought 
that  turned  him  cold  on  the  hot  day:   it  was  unbearable. 

He  had  pleaded  strongly  for  a  "dress-suit"  as  a  fitting 
recognition  of  his  seventeenth  birthday  anniversary,  but 
he  had  been  denied  by  his  father  with  a  jocularity  more 
crushing  than  rigor.  Since  then — in  particular  since  the 
arrival  of  Miss  Pratt — Mr.  Baxter's  temper  had  been 
growing  steadily  more  and  more  even.  That  is,  as  af- 
fected by  William's  social  activities,  it  was  uniformly 
bad.  Nevertheless,,  after  heavy  brooding,  William  decided 
to  make  one  final  appeal  before  he  resorted  to  measures 
which  the  necessities  of  despair  had  brought  to  his  mind. 

He  wished  to  give  himself  every  chance  for  a  good 
effect;  therefore  he  did  not  act  hastily,  but  went  over 
what  he  intended  to  say,  rehearsing  it  with  a  few  appro- 
priate gestures,  and  even  taking  some  pleasure  in  the 
pathetic  dignity  of  this  performance,  as  revealed  by 
occasional  glances  at  the  mirror  of  his  dressing-table. 
But  in  spite  of  these  little  alleviations,  his  trouble  was 
great  and  all  too  real,  for,  unhappily,  the  previous  rehearsal 
of  an  emotional  scene  does  not  prove  the  emotion  insincere. 

Descending,  he  found  his  father  and  mother  still  sit- 
ting upon  the  front  porch.  Then,  standing  before  them, 
solemn-eyed,   he  uttered  a  preluding  cough,  and  began: 

"Father,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  voice,  "I  have  come  to — " 

"Dear  me!"  Mrs.  Baxter  exclaimed,  not  perceiving  that 
she  was  interrupting  an  intended  oration.  "Willie,  you  do 
look  pale!  Sit  down,  poor  child;  you  oughtn't  to  walk 
so  much  in  this  heat." 

"Father,"  William  repeated.    "Fath— " 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  205 

"I  suppose  you  got  her  safely  home  from  church,"  Mr. 
Baxter  said.  "She  might  have  been  carried  off  by  high- 
waymen if  you  three  boys  hadn't  been  along  to  take  care 
of  her!" 

But  William  persisted  heroically.  "Father — "  he  said. 
"Father,  I  have  come  to — " 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter  with  you?"  Mr.  Baxter 
ceased  to  fan  himself,  Mrs.  Baxter  stopped  rocking,  and 
both  stared,  for  it  had  dawned  upon  them  that  something 
unusual  was  beginning  to  take  place. 

William  backed  to  the  start  and  tried  it  again. 
"Father,  I  have  come  to — "  He  paused  and  gulped, 
evidently  expecting  to  be  interrupted,  but  both  of  his 
parents  remained  silent,  regarding  him  with  puzzled  sur- 
prise. "Father,"  he  began  once  more,  "I  have  come — I 
have  come  to — to  place  before  you  something  I  think  it's 
your  duty  as  my  father  to  undertake,  and  I  have  thought 
over  this  step  before  laying  it  before  you." 

"My  soul!"  said  Mr.  Baxter  under  his  breath.  "My 
soul!" 

"At  my  age,"  William  continued,  swallowing,  and  fixing 
his  earnest  eyes  upon  the  roof  of  the  porch  to  avoid 
the  disconcerting  stare  of  his  father,  "at  my  age  there's 
some  things  that  ought  to  be  done  and  some  things  that 
ought  not  to  be  done.  If  you  asked  me  what  I  thought 
ought  to  be  done,  there  is  only  one  answer:  When  any- 
body as  old  as  I  am  has  to  go  out  among  other  young 
men  his  own  age  that  already  got  one,  like  anyway  half 
of  them  have,  who  I  go  with,  and  their  fathers  have  al- 
ready taken  such  a  step,  because  they  felt  it  was  the  only 
right  thing  to  do,  because  at  my  age  and  the  young  men 
I  go  with's  age  it  is  the  only  right  thing  to  do  because  that 
is  something  nobody  could  deny,  at  my  age — "  Here 
William  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  deciding  to  abandon 
that  sentence  as  irrevocably  tangled,  began  another:  "I 
have  thought  over  this  step,  because  there  comes  a  time 
to  every  young  man  when  they  must  lay  a  step  before 
their  father  before  something  happens  that  they  would 
be  sorry  for.  I  have  thought  this  undertaking  over,  and 
I  am  certain  it  would  be  your  honest  duty — " 


2o6  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

"My  soul!"  gasped  Mr.  Baxter.  "I  thought  I  knew 
you  pretty  well,  but  you  talk  like  a  stranger  to  me!  What 
is  all  this?     What  you  ivant?" 

"A  dress-suit!"  said  William.  He  had  Intended  to  say 
a  great  deal  more  before  coming  to  the  point,  but  though 
through  nervousness  he  had  lost  some  threads  of  his  re- 
hearsed plea,  it  seemed  to  him  he  was  getting  along  well, 
and  putting  his  case  with  some  distinction  and  power. 
He  was  surprised  and  hurt,  therefore,  to  hear  his  father 
utter  a  wordless  shout  in  a  tone  of  wondering  derision. 

"I  have  more  to  say — "  William  began. 

But,  disregarding  this,  Mr.  Baxter  cut  him  off.  "A 
dress-suit!"  he  cried.  "Well,  I'm  glad  you  were  talking 
about  something,  because  I  honestly  thought  it  must  be 
too  much   sun!" 

At  this,  the  troubled  William  brought  his  eyes  do'vn  f  ronri 
the  porch  roof  and  forgot  his  rehearsal.  He  lifted  his 
hand  appealingly.     "Father,"  he  said,  "I  got  to  have  one!" 

"'Got  to!'"  Mr.  Baxter  laughed  a  laugh  that  chilled 
the  supplicant  through  and  through.  "At  your  age  I 
thought  I  was  lucky  if  I  had  any  suit  that  was  fit  to  be 
seen  in.  You're  too  young,  Willie.  I  don't  want  you  to 
get  your  mind  on  such  stuflf,  and  if  I  have  my  way,  you 
won't  have  a  dress-suit  for  four  years  more,  anyhow." 

"Father,  I  got  to  have  one.  I  got  to  have  one  right 
away !"  The  urgency  in  William's  voice  was  almost  tear- 
ful. "I  don't  ask  you  to  have  it  made,  or  to  go  to  ex- 
pensive tailors,  but  there's  a  plenty  of  good  ready-made 
ones  that  only  cost  about  forty  dollars;  they're  advertised 
in  the  paper.  Father,  wouldn't  you  spent  just  forty 
dollars?   I'll  pay  it  back  when  I'm  in  business.  I'll  work — " 

Mr.  Baxter  waved  all  this  aside.  "It's  not  the  money. 
It's  the  principle  that  I'm  standing  for,  and  I  don't  In- 
tend—" 

"Father,  won't  you  do  It?" 

"No,  I  will  not!" 

William  saw  that  sentence  had  been  passed  and  all  ap- 
peals for  a  new  trial  denied.  He  choked,  and  rushed  Into 
the  house  without  more  ado. 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  207 

"Poor  boy!"  his  mother  said. 

''Poor  boy  nothing!"  fumed  Mr,  Baxter.  "He's  almost 
lost  his  mind  over  that  Aliss  Pratt.  Think  of  his  coming 
out  here  and  starting  a  regular  debating  society  declama- 
tion before  his  mother  and  father!  Why,  I  never  heard 
anything  like  it  in  my  life!  I  don't  like  to  hurt  his  feel- 
ings, and  I'd  give  him  anything  I  could  afford  that  would 
do  him  any  good,  but  all  he  wants  it  for  now  is  to  splurge 
around  in  at  this  party  before  that  little  yellow-haired 
girl !  I  guess  he  can  wear  the  kind  of  clothes  most  of  the 
other  boys  wear — the  kind  /  wore  at  parties — and  never 
thought  of  wearing  anything  else.  What's  the  world  get- 
ting to  be  like.''  Seventeen  years  old  and  throws  a  fit  be- 
cause he  can't  have  a  dress-suit!" 

Mrs.  Baxter  looked  thoughtful.  "But — but  suppose 
he  felt  he  couldn't  go  to  the  dance  unless  he  wore  one, 
poor  boy — " 

"All  the  better,"  said  Mr.  Baxter  firmly.  "Do  him  good 
to  keep  away  and  get  his  mind  on  something  else." 

"Of  course,"  she  suggested,  with  some  timidity,  "forty 
dollars  isn't  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  a  ready-made 
suit,  just  to  begin  with — " 

Naturally  Mr.  Baxter  perceived  whither  she  was  drift- 
ing. "Forty  dollars  isn't  a  thousand,"  he  interrupted, 
"but  what  you  want  to  throw  it  away  for?  One  reason 
a  boy  of  seventeen  oughtn't  to  have  evening  clothes  is  the 
way  he  behaves  with  any  clothes.  Forty  dollars !  Why, 
only  this  summer  he  sat  down  on  Jane's  open  paint-box, 
twice  in  one  week !" 

"Well — Miss  Pratt  is  going  away,  and  the  dance  will 
be  her  last  night.  I'm  afraid  it  would  really  hurt  him  to 
miss  it.  I  remember  once,  before  we  were  engaged — that 
evening  before  papa  took  me  abroad,  and  you — " 

"It's  no  use,  mamma,"  he  said.  "We  were  both  over 
twenty — why,  /  was  six  years  older  than  Willie,  even  then. 
There's  no  comparison  at  all,  I'll  let  him  order  a  dress- 
suit  on  his  twenty-first  birthday  and  not  a  minute  before, 
I  don't  believe  in  it,  and  I  intend  to  see  that  he  gets  all 
this  stuff  out  of  his  system.     He's  got  to  learn  some  hard 


sense!" 


2o8  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

Mrs.  Baxter  shook  her  head  doubtfully,  but  she  said  no 
more.  Perhaps  she  regretted  a  little  that  she  had  caused 
Mr.  Baxter's  evening  clothes  to  be  so  expansively  enlarged 
— for  she  looked  rather  regretful.  She  also  looked  rather 
incomprehensible,  not  to  say  cryptic,  during  the  long 
silence  which  followed,  and  Mr.  Baxter  resumed  his  rock- 
ing, unaware  of  the  fixity  of  gaze  which  his  wife  maintained 
upon  him — a  thing  the  most  loyal  will  do  sometimes. 
The  incomprehensible  look  disappeared  before  long, 
but  the  regretful  one  was  renewed  in  the  mother's  eyes 
whenever  she  caught  glimpses  of  her  son,  that  day,  and  at 
the  table,  where  William's  manner  was  gentle — even 
toward  his  heartless  father. 

Underneath  that  gentleness,  the  harried  self  of  William 
was  no  longer  debating  a  desperate  resolve,  but  had  fixed 
upon  it,  and  on  the  following  afternoon  Jane  chanced  to 
be  a  witness  of  some  resultant  actions.  She  came  to  her 
mother  with  an  account  of  them. 

"Mamma,  what  you  s'pose  Willie  wants  of  those  two 
ole  market  baskets  that  were  down  cellar?" 

"Why,  Jane.?"_ 

"Well,  he  carried  'em  in  his  room,  an'  then  he  saw  me 
lookin',  an'  he  said  'G'way  from  here!'  an'  shut  the  door. 
He  looks  so  funny !  What's  he  want  of  those  ole  baskets, 
mamma:" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he  doesn't  even  know  himself, 
J^^e." 

But  W^illiam  did  know,  definitely.  He  had  set  the 
baskets  upon  chairs,  and  now,  with  pale  determination, 
he  was  proceeding  to  fill  them.  When  his  task  was  com- 
pleted the  two  baskets  contained,  between  them: 

One  heavy-weight  winter  suit  of  clothes. 

One  light-weight  summer  suit  of  clothes. 

Two  pairs  of  white  flannel  trousers. 

Two  Madras  negligee  shirts. 

Two  flannel  shirt--- 

Two  silk  shirts. 

Seven  soft  collars. 

Three  silk  neckties. 

One  crocheted  tie. 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  209 

Eight  pairs  of  socks. 

One  pair  of  patent-leather  shoes. 

One  overcoat. 

Some  underwear. 

One  two-foot  shelf  of  books,  consisting  of  several  sterling 
works  upon  mathematics,  in  a  damaged  condition;  five 
of  Shakespeare's  plays,  expurgated  and  edited  for  schools 
and  colleges,  and  also  damaged;  a  work  upon  political 
economy  and  another  upon  the  science  of  physics;  "Web- 
ster's Collegiate  Dictionary,"  "How  to  Enter  a  Drawing- 
Room  and  500  Other  Hints,"  "Witty  Sayings  From  Here 
and  There,"  "Lorna  Doone,"  "Quentin  Durward,"  "The 
Adventures  of  Sherlock  f-Iolmes,"  a  very  old  copy  of 
"Moths,"  and  a  small  Bible. 

William  spread  handkerchiefs  upon  the  two  overbulging 
cargoes,  that  their  nature  might  not  be  disclosed  to  the 
curious,  and,  after  listening  a  moment  at  his  door,  took 
the  baskets,  one  upon  each  arm,  then  went  quickly  down 
the  stairs  and  out  of  the  house,  out  of  the  yard,  and  into 
the  alley — by  which  route  he  had  modestly  chosen  to 
travel. 

.  .  .  After  an  absence  of  about  two  hours,  he  returned 
empty-handed  and  anxious.  "Mother,  I  want  to  speak  to 
you,"  he  said,  addressing  Mrs.  Baxter  in  a  voice  which 
clearly  proved  the  strain  of  these  racking  days.  "I  want  to 
speak  to  vou  about  something  important." 

"Yes,  Willie?" 

"Please  send  Jane  away.  I  can't  talk  about  important 
things  with  a  child  in  the  room." 

Jane  naturally  wished  to  stay,  since  he  was  going  to  say 
something  important.     "Mamma,  do  I  haf  to  go:" 

"Just  a  few  minutes,  dear." 

Jane  walked  submissively  out  of  the  door,  leaving  it 
open  behind  her.  Then,  having  gone  about  six  feet  farther, 
she  halted,  and,  preserving  a  breathless  silence,  consoled 
herself  for  her  banishment  bv  listenins;  to  what  was  said, 
hearmg  it  all  as  satisfactorily  as  if  she  had  remained  m 
the  room.  Quiet,  thoughtful  children,  like  Jane,  avail 
themselves  of  these  little  pleasures  oftener  than  is  sus- 
pected. 


210  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

"Mother,"  said  William,  with  great  intensity,  "I  want 
to  ask  you  please  to  lend  me  three  dollars  and  sixty  cents." 

"What  for,  Willie?" 

"Mother,  I  just  ask  you  to  lend  me  three  dollars  and 
sixty  cents." 

"But  what  for?" 

"Mother,  I  don't  feel  I  can  discuss  it  any;  I  simply  ask 
you:  Will  you  lend  me  three  dollars  and  sixty  cents.''" 

Mrs.  Baxter  laughed  gently.  "I  don't  think  I  could, 
Willie,  but  certainly  I  should  want  to  know  what  for," 

"Mother,  I  am  going  on  eighteen  years  of  age,  and 
when  I  ask  for  a  small  sum  of  money,  like  three  dollars 
and  sixty  cents,  I  think  I  might  be  trusted  to  know  how 
to  use  it  for  my  own  good  without  having  to  answer  ques- 
tions like  a  ch — " 

"Why,  Willie!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  ought  to  have 
plenty  of  money  of  your  own." 

"Of  course  I  ought,"  he  agreed  warmly.  "If  you'd  ask 
father  to  give  me  a  regular  allow — " 

"No,  no;  I  mean  you  ought  to  have  plenty  left  out  of 
that  old  junk  and  furniture  I  let  you  sell,  last  month.  You 
had  nearly  nine  dollars !" 

"That  was  five  weeks  ago,"  William  explained  wearily. 

"But  you  certainly  must  have  some  of  it  left.  Why, 
it  was  more  than  nine  dollars,  I  believe!  I  think  it  was 
nearer  ten.    Surely  you  haven't — " 

■  "Ye  Gods !"  cried  the  goaded  William.  "A  person  going 
on  eighteen  yeai3  old  ought  to  be  able  to  spend  nine  dollars 
in  five  weeks  without  everybody's  acting  like  it  was  a 
crime!  Mother,  I  ask  you  the  simple  question:  Will  you 
please  lend  me  three  dollars  and  sixty  cents?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ought  to,  dear.  I'm  sure  your  father 
wouldn't  wish  me  to,  unless  you'll  tell  me  what  you  want  it 
for.  In  fact,  I  won't  consider  it  at  all  unless  you  do  tell  me." 

"You  won't  do  it?"  he  quavered. 

She  shook  her  head  gently.  "You  see,  dear,  I'm  afraid 
the  reason  you  don't  tell  me  is  because  you  know  that 
I  wouldn't  give  it  to  you  if  I  knew  what  you  wanted  it  for." 

And  this  perfect  diagnosis  of  the  case  so  disheartened 
him  that  after  a  few  monosyllabic  efforts  to  continue  the 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  211 

conversation  with  dignity,  he  gave  it  up,  and  left  in  such 
a  preoccupation  with  despondency  that  he  passed  the  sur- 
prised Jane,  in  the  hall,  without  suspecting  what  she  had 
been  doing. 

That  evening,  after  dinner,  he  made  to  his  father  an 
impassioned  appeal  for  three  dollars  and  sixty  cents,  lay- 
ing such  stress  of  pathos  on  his  principal  argument  that 
if  he  couldn't  have  a  dress-suit,  at  least  he  ought  to  be 
given  three  dollars  and  sixty  cents  (the  emphasis  is 
William's),  that  Mr.  Baxter  was  moved  in  the  direction 
of  consent — but  not  far  enough.  "I'd  like  to  let  you  have 
it,  Willie,"  he  said,  excusing  himself  for  refusal,  "but 
your  mother  felt  she  oughtn't  to  do  it,  unless  you'd  say 
what  you  wanted  it  for,  and  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  like  me 
to  do  it.  I  can't  let  you  have  it  unless  you  get  her  to  say 
she  wants  me  to." 

Thus  advised,  the  unfortunate  made  another  appeal  to 
his  mother  the  next  day,  and  having  brought  about  no 
relaxation  of  the  situation,  again  petitioned  his  father,  on 
the  following  evening.  So  it  went,  the  torn  and  driven 
William  turning  from  parent  to  parent;  and  surely,  since 
the  world  began,  the  special  sum  of  three  dollars  and  sixty 
cents  has  never  been  so  often  mentioned  in  any  one  house 
and  in  the  same  space  of  time  as  it  was  in  the  house  of 
the  Baxters  during  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday  and 
Thursday  of  that  oppressive  week.  But  on  Friday  William 
disappeared  after  breakfast  and  did  not  return  to  lunch. 

Mrs.  Baxter  was  troubled.  During  the  afternoon  she 
glanced  often  from  the  open  window  of  the  room  where 
she  had  gone  to  sew,  but  the  peaceful  neighborhood  con- 
tinued to  be  peaceful,  and  no  sound  of  the  harassed  foot- 
steps of  William  echoed  from  the  pavement.  However, 
she  saw  Genesis  arrive  (in  his  week-day  costume)  to  do 
some  weeding,  and  Jane  immediately  skip  forth  for 
mingled  purposes  of  observation  and  conversation. 

"What  do  they  say?"  thought  Mrs.  Baxter,  observing 
that  both  Jane  and  Genesis  were  unusually  animated. 
But  for  once  that  perplexity  was  to  he  dispersed.  After 
an  exciting  half-hour  Jane  came  flying  to  her  mother, 
breathless. 


212  ''CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

"Mamma,"  she  cried,  "I  know  where  Willie  is !  Genesis 
told  me,  'cause  he  saw  him,  an'  he  talked  to  him  while  he 
was  doin'  it." 

"Doing  what?    Where?" 

"Mamma,  listen!  What  you  think  Willie's  doin'?  I  bet 
you   can't  g — " 

"Jane!"  Mrs.  Baxter  spoke  sharply.  "Tell  me  what 
Genesis  said,  at  once." 

"Yes'm.  Willie's  over  in  a  lumber-yard  that  Genesis 
comes  bv  on  his  wav  from  over  on  the  avynoo  where  all 
the  colored  people  live — an'  he's  countin'  knot-holes  in 
shingles." 

"He  is  zvhatV 

"Yes'm.  Genesis  knows  all  about  it,  because  he  was 
thinkin'  of  doin'  it  himself,  only  he  says  it  would  be  too 
slow.  This  is  the  way  it  is,  mamma — listen,  mamma, 
because  this  is  just  exactly  the  way  it  is.  Well,  this  lum- 
ber-yard man  got  into  some  sort  of  a  fuss  because  he 
bought  millions  an'  millions  of  shingles,  mamma,  that  had 
too  many  knots  In,  an'  the  man  don't  want  to  pay  for  'em, 
or  else  the  store  where  he  bought  'em  won't  take  'em  back, 
an'  they  got  to  prove  how  many  shingles  are  bad  shingles, 
or  somep'm,  and  anyway,  mamma,  that's  what  Willie's 
doin'.  Every  time  he  comes  to  a  bad  shingle,  mamma, 
he  puts  it  somewheres  else,  or  somep'm  like  that,  mamma, 
an'  every  time  he's  put  a  thousand  bad  shingles  in  this 
other  place,  they  give  him  six  cents.  He  gets  the  six  cents 
to  keep,  mamma — an'  that's  what  he's  been  doin'  all  day!" 

"Good  gracious!" 

"Oh,  but  that's  nothing,  mamma — just  you  wait  till  you 
hear  the  rest.  That  part  of  it  isn't  anything  a  tall,  mamma ! 
You  wouldn't  hardly  notice  that  part  of  It,  if  you  knew 
the  other  part  of  It,  mamma.  Why,  that  isn't  anything!" 
Jane  made  demonstrations  of  scorn  for  the  Insignificant 
information  already  imparted. 

"Jane!" 

"Yes'm?" 

"I  want  to  know  everything  Genesis  told  you,"  said  her 
mother,  "and  I  want  you  to  tell  It  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

"Well,  I  am  tellin'  It,  mamma !"  Jane  protested.     "I'm 


BOOTH  Tx\RKINGTON  213 

just  beginning  to  tell  it.  I  can't  tell  it  unless  there's  a 
beginning,  can  I?  How  could  there  be  anything  unless 
you  had  to  begin  it,  mamma?" 

"Try  your  best  to  go  on,  Jane !" 

"Yes'm.  Well,  Genesis  says — Mamma!"  Jane  inter- 
rupted herself  with  a  little  outcry.  "Oh !  I  bet  that's  what 
he  had  those  two  market  baskets  for!  Yes,  sir!  That's 
just  what  he  did!  An'  then  he  needed  the  rest  o'  the 
money  and  you  an'  papa  wouldn't  give  him  any,  and  so 
he  began  countin'  shingles  to-day  'cause  to-night's  the  night 
of  the  party  an'  he  just  hass  to  have  it!" 

Mrs.  Baxter,  who  had  risen  to  her  feet,  recalled  the 
episode  of  the  baskets  and  sank  into  a  chair.  "How  did 
Genesis  know  Willie  wanted  forty  dollars,  and  if  Willie's 
pawned  something  how  did  Genesis  know  that?  Did 
Willie  tell  Gen—" 

"Oh,  no,  mamma,  Willie  didn't  want  forty  dollars — only 
fourteen!" 

"But  he  couldn't  get  even  the  cheapest  ready-made 
dress-suit  for  fourteen  dollars." 

"Mamma,  you're  gcttin'  it  all  mixed  up!"  Jane  cried. 
"Listen,  mamma !  Genesis  knows  all  about  a  second- 
hand store  over  on  the  avynoo;  an'  it  keeps  'most  every- 
thing, an'  Genesis  says  it's  the  nicest  store!  It  keeps  waiter 
suits  all  the  way  up  to  nineteen  dollars  and  ninety-nine 
cents.  Well,  an'  Genesis  wants  to  get  one  of  those  suits, 
so  he  goes  in  there  all  the  time  an'  talks  to  the  man  an' 
bargains  an'  bargains  with  him,  'cause  Genesis  says  this 
man  is  the  bargainest  man  in  the  wide  worl',  mamma ! 
That's  what  Genesis  says.  Well,  an'  so  this  man's  name 
is  One-eye  Beljus,  mamma.  That's  his  name,  an'  Genesis 
says  so.  Well,  an'  so  this  man  that  Genesis  told  me  about 
that  keeps  the  store — I  mean  One-eye  Beljus,  mamma — 
well,  One-eye  Beljus  had  Willie's  name  written  down  in 
a  book,  an'  he  knew  Genesis  worked  for  fam'lies  that  have 
boys  like  Willie  in  'em,  an'  this  morning  One-eye  Beljus 
showed  Genesis  Willie's  name  written  down  in  his  book, 
an'  One-eye  Beljus  asked  Genesis  if  he  knew  anybody 
by  that  name  an'  all  about  him.  Well,  an'  so  at  first 
Genesis   pretended  he  was   tryin'  to  remember,  because 


214  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

he  wanted  to  find  out  what  Willie  went  there  for.  Genesis 
didn't  tell  any  stories,  mamma;  he  just  pretended  he 
couldn't  remember,  an'  so,  well.  One-eye  Beljus  kept  talkin' 
an'  pretty  soon  Genesis  found  out  all  about  it.  One-eye 
Beljus  said  Willie  came  in  there  and  tried  on  the  coat  of 
one  of  those  waiter  suits — " 

"Oh,  no!"  gasped  Mrs.  Baxter. 

"Yes'm,  an'  One-eye  Beljus  said  it  was  the  only  one 
that  would  fit  Willie,  an'  One-eye  Beljus  told  Willie  that 
suit  was  worth  fourteen  dollars,  an'  Willie  said  he  didn't 
have  any  money,  but  he'd  like  to  trade  something  else 
for  it.  Well,  an'  so  One-eye  Beljus  said  this  was  an  awful 
fine  suit  an'  the  only  one  he  had  that  had  b'longed  to  a 
white  gentleman.  Well,  an'  so  they  bargained,  an'  bar- 
gained, an'  bargained,  an'  bargained!  An'  then,  well,  an' 
so  at  last  Willie  said  he'd  go  an'  get  everything  that 
b'longed  to  him,  an'  One-eye  Beljus  could  pick  out  enough 
to  make  fourteen  dollars'  worth,  an'  then  Willie  could 
have  the  suit.  Well,  an'  so  Willie  came  home  an'  put 
everything  he  had  that  b'longed  to  him  into  those 
two  baskets,  mamma — that's  just  what  he  did,  'cause  Gen- 
esis says  he  told  One-eye  Beljus  it  was  everything  that 
b'longed  to  him,  an'  that  would  take  two  baskets,  mamma. 
Well  then,  an'  so  he  told  One-eye  Beljus  to  pick  out  four- 
teen dollars'  worth,  an'  One-eye  Beljus  ast  Willie  if  he 
didn't  have  a  watch.  Well,  Willie  took  out  his  watch,  an' 
One-eye  Beljus  said  it  was  an  awful  bad  watch  but  he 
would  put  it  in  for  a  dollar;  an'  he  said,  T'll  put  your 
necktie  pin  in  for  forty  cents  more,'  so  Willie  took  it  out 
of  his  necktie;  an'  then  One-eye  Beljus  said  it  would  take 
all  the  things  in  the  baskets  to  make  I  forget  how  much, 
mamma,  and  the  watch  would  be  a  dollar  more,  an'  the 
pin  forty  cents,  an'  that  would  leave  just  three  dollars  and 
sixty  cents  more  for  Willie  to  pay  before  he  could  get  the 
suit." 

Mrs.  Baxter's  face  had  become  suffused  with  high  color, 
but  she  wished  to  know  all  that  Genesis  had  said,  and,  mas- 
tering her  feelings  with  an  effort,  she  told  Jane  to  proceed 
— a  command  obeyed  after  Jane  had  taken  several  long 
breaths. 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  215 

"Well,  an'  so  the  worst  part  of  it  is,  Genesis  says,  it's 
because  that  suit  is  haunted." 

"What !" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Jane  solemnly;  "Genesis  says  it's  haunted. 
Genesis  says  everybody  over  on  the  avynoo  knows  all 
about  that  suit,  an'  he  says  that's  why  One-eye  Beljus 
never  could  sell  it  before.  Genesis  says  One-eye  Beljus 
tried  to  sell  it  to  a  colored  man  for  three  dollars,  but  the 
man  said  he  wouldn't  put  it  on  for  three  hunderd  dollars, 
an'  Genesis  says  he  wouldn't  either,  because  it  belonged  to 
a  Dago  waiter  that — that — "  Jane's  voice  sank  to  a  whis- 
per of  unctuous  horror:  she  was  having  a  wonderful  time! 
"Mamma,  this  Dago  waiter,  he  lived  over  on  the  avynoo, 
an'  he  took  a  case-knife  he'd  sharpened — an^  he  cut  a 
lady's  head  off  with  it!" 

Mrs.  Baxter  screamed  faintly. 

"An'  he  got  hung,  mamma !  If  you  don't  believe  it  you 
can  ask  One-eye  Beljus — I  guess  he  knows!  An'  you  can 
ask—" 

"Hush!" 

"An'  he  sold  this  suit  that  Willie  wants  to  One-eye  Beljus 
when  he  was  in  jail,  mamma.  He  sold  it  to  him  before 
he  got  hung,  mamma." 

"Hush,  Jane!" 

But  Jane  couldn't  hush  now.  "An'  he  had  that  suit  on 
when  he  cut  the  lady's  head  off,  mamma,  an'  that's  why 
it's  haunted.  They  cleaned  it  all  up  exccp'  a  few  little  spots 
of  bl— " 

"Jane!"  shouted  her  mother.  "You  must  not  talk  about 
such  things,  and  Genesis  mustn't  tell  vou  stories  of  that 
sort!" 

"Well,  how  could  he  help  it,  if  he  told  me  about  Willie?" 
Jane  urged  reasonably, 

"Never  mind !  Did  that  crazy  ch —  Did  Willie  leave 
the  baskets  in  that  dreadful  placer" 

"Yes'm — an'  his  watch  an'  pin,"  Jane  informed  her  im- 
pressively. "An'  One-eye  Beljus  wanted  to  know  if  Gene- 
sis knew  Willie,  because  One-eye  Beljus  wanted  to  know 
if  Genesis  thought  Willie  could  get  the  three  dollars  an' 
sixty  cents,  an'  One-eye  Beljus  wanted  to  know  if  Genesis 


2i6  ''CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

thought  he  could  get  anything  more  out  of  him  besides 
that.  He  told  Genesis  he  hadn't  told  Willie  he  could  have 
the  suit,  after  all;  he  just  told  him  he  thought  he  could, 
but  he  wouldn't  say  for  certain  till  he  brought  him  the 
three  dollars  an'  sixty  cents.  So  Willie  left  all  his  things 
there,  an'  his  watch  an' — " 

"That  will  do!"  Mrs.  Baxter's  voice  was  sharper  than 
it  had  ever  been  in  Jane's  recollection.  "I  don't  need  to 
hear  any  more — and  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more!" 

Jane  was  justly  aggrieved.  "But  mamma,  it  Isn't  viy 
fault!" 

Mrs.  Baxter's  lips  parted  to  speak,  but  she  checked 
herself.  "Fault.'"  she  said  gravely.  "I  wonder  whose  fault 
it  really  is!" 

And  with  that  she  went  hurriedly  into  William's  room, 
and  made  a  brief  inspection  of  his  clothes-closet  and  dress- 
ing-table. Then,  as  Jane  watched  her  in  awed  silence,  she 
strode  to  the  window  and  called  loudly: 

"Genesis!" 

"Yes'mr"  came  the  voice  from  below. 

"Go  to  that  lumber-yard  where  Air.  William  is  at  work 
and  bring  him  here  to  me  at  once.  If  he  declines  to  come, 
tell  him — "  Her  voice  broke  oddly;  she  choked,  but  Jane 
could  not  decide  with  what  emotion.  "Tell  him — tell  him 
I  ordered  you  to  use  force  if  necessary!    Hurry!" 

Jane  ran  to  the  window  in  time  to  see  Genesis  departing 
seriouslv  through  the  back  gate. 

"Mamma—" 

"Don't  talk  to  me  now,  Jane,"  Mrs.  Baxter  said  crisply. 
"I  want  you  to  go  down  in  the  yard,  and  when  Willie 
comes  tell  him  I'm  waiting  for  him  here  in  his  own  rooi".. 
And  don't  come  with  him,  Jane.     Run!" 

"Yes,  mamma."  Jane  was  pleased  with  this  appoint- 
ment: she  anxiously  desired  to  be  the  first  to  see  how 
Willie  "looked." 

.  .  .  He  looked  flurried  and  flustered  and  breathless, 
and  there  were  blisters  upon  the  reddened  palms  of  his 
hands.  "What  on  earth's  the  matter,  mother?"  he  asked, 
as  he  stood  panting  before  her.     "Genesis  said  something 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  217 

was   wrong,   and   he   said  you  told   him  to   hit   me    if   I 
wouldn't  come." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried.  "I  only  meant  I  thought  perhaps 
you  wouldn't  obey  any  ordinary  message — " 

"Well,  well,  it  doesn't  matter,  but  please  hurry  and  say 
what  you  want  to  because  I  got  to  get  back  and — " 

"No,"  IVIrs.  Baxter  said  quietly.  "You're  not  going  back 
to  count  any  more  shingles,  Willie.  How  much  have  you 
earned?" 

He  swallowed,  but  spoke  bravely.  "Thirty-six  cents. 
But  I've  been  getting  lots  faster  the  last  two  hours  and 
there's  a  good  deal  of  time  before  six  o'clock.     Mother — " 

"No,"  she  said.  "You're  going  over  to  that  horrible 
place  where  you've  left  your  clothes  and  your  watch  and 
all  those  other  things  in  the  two  baskets,  and  you're  going 
to  bring  them  home  at  once." 

"Mother!"  he  cried  aghast.     "Who  told  you?" 

"It  doesn't  matter.  You  don't  want  your  father  to  find 
out,  do  you?  Then  get  those  things  back  here  as  quickly 
as  you  can.  They'll  have  to  be  fumigated  after  being  in 
that  den." 

"They've  never  been  out  of  the  baskets,"  he  protested 
hotly,  "except  just  to  be  looked  at.  They're  my  things, 
mother,  and  I  had  a  right  to  do  what  I  needed  to  with 
'em,  didn't  I?"  His  utterance  became  difficult.  "You  and 
father  just  can't  understand — and  you  won't  do  anything 
to  help  me — " 

"Willie,  you  can  go  to  the  party,"  she  said  gently.  "You 
didn't  need  those  frightful  clothes  at  all." 

"I  do!"  he  cried.  "I  got  to  have  'em!  I  can't  go  in  my 
day  clo'es !  There's  a  reason  you  wouldn't  understand 
why  I  can't.     I  just  can't!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  can  go  to  the  party." 

"I  can't  either!  Not  unless  you  give  me  three  dollars 
and  twenty-four  cents,  or  unless  I  can  get  back  to  the 
lumber-yard  and  earn  the  rest  before — " 

"No!"  And  the  warm  color  that  had  rushed  over  Mrs. 
Baxter  during  Jane's  sensational  recital  returned  with  a 
vengeance.  Her  eyes  flashed.  "If  you'd  rather  I  sent  a 
policeman  for  those  baskets,  I'll  send  one.    I  should  prefer 


2i8  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

to  do  It — much !  And  to  have  that  rascal  arrested.  If  you 
don't  want  me  to  send  a  policeman  you  can  go  for  them 
yourself,  but  you  must  start  within  ten  minutes,  because 
if  you  don't  I'll  telephone  headquarters.  Ten  minutes, 
Willie,  and  I  mean  it!" 

He  cried  out,  protesting.  She  would  make  him  a  thing 
of  scorn  forever  and  soil  his  honor,  if  she  sent  a  policeman. 
Mr,  Beljus  was  a  fair  and  honest  tradesman,  he  explained 
passionately,  and  had  not  made  the  approaches  in  this 
matter.  Also,  the  garments  in  question,  though  not  en- 
tirely new,  nor  of  the  highest  mode,  were  of  good  material 
and  in  splendid  condition.  Unmistakably  they  were  even- 
ing clothes,  and  such  a  bargain  at  fourteen  dollars  that 
William  would  guarantee  to  sell  them  for  twenty  after  he 
had  worn  them  this  one  evening.  Mr.  Beljus  himself  had 
said  that  he  would  not  even  think  of  letting  them  go  at 
fourteen  to  anybody  else,  and  as  for  the  two  poor  baskets 
of  worn  and  useless  articles  offered  in  exchange,  and  a  bent 
scarfpin  and  a  worn-out  old  silver  watch  that  had  belonged 
to  great-uncle  Ben — why,  the  ten  dollars  and  forty  cents 
allowed  upon  them  was  beyond  all  ordinary  liberality;  it 
was  almost  charity.  There  was  only  one  place  in  town 
where  evening  clothes  were  rented,  and  the  suspicious 
persons  in  charge  had  insisted  that  William  obtain  from 
his  father  a  guarantee  to  insure  the  return  of  the  garments 
in  perfect  condition.  So  that  was  hopeless.  And  wasn't 
it  better,  also,  to  wear  clothes  which  had  known  only  one 
previous  occupant  (as  was  the  case  with  Mr.  Beljus'  offer- 
ing) than  to  hire  what  chance  hundreds  had  hired? 
Finally,  there  was  only  one  thing  to  be  considered  and  this 
was  the  fact  that  William  had  to  have  those  clothes ! 

"Six  minutes,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  glancing  implacably  at 
her  watch.    "When  it's  ten  I'll  telephone." 

And  the  end  of  it  was,  of  course,  victory  for  the  woman 
— victory  both  moral  and  physical.  Three-quarters  of  an 
hour  later  she  was  unburdening  the  contents  of  the  two 
baskets  and  putting  the  things  back  in  place,  illuminating 
these  actions  with  an  expression  of  strong  distaste — in  spite 
of  broken  assurances  that  Mr.  Beljus  had  not  more  than 
touched  any  of  the  articles  offered  to  him  for  valuation. 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  219 

...  At  dinner,  which  was  unusually  early  that  evening, 
Mrs.  Baxter  did  not  often  glance  toward  her  son;  she  kept 
her  eyes  from  that  white  face  and  spent  most  of  her  tinie 
in  urging  upon  Mr.  Baxter  that  he  should  be  prompt  in 
dressing  for  a  card-club  meeting  which  he  and  she  were  to 
attend  that  evening.  These  admonitions  of  hers  were  con- 
tinued so  pressingly  that  Mr.  Baxter,  after  protesting  that 
there  was  no  use  in  being  a  whole  hour  too  early,  groan- 
ingly  went  to  dress  without  even  reading  his  paper. 

William  had  retired  to  his  own  room,  where  he  lay  upon 
his  bed  in  the  darkness.  He  heard  the  evening  noises  of 
the  house  faintly  through  the  closed  door:  voices  and  the 
clatter  of  metal  and  china  from  the  faraway  kitchen, 
Jane's  laugh  in  the  hall,  the  opening  and  closing  of  the 
doors.  Then  his  father  seemed  to  be  in  distress  about 
something:  William  heard  him  complaining  to  Mrs.  Bax- 
ter; and  though  the  words  were  indistinct,  the  tone  was 
vigorously  plaintive.  Mrs.  Baxter  laughed  and  appeared  to 
make  light  of  his  troubles,  whatever  they  were — and  pres- 
ently their  footsteps  were  audible  from  the  stairway;  the 
front  door  closed  emphatically,  and  they  were  gone. 

Everything  was  quiet  now.  The  open  window  showed 
as  a  greenish  oblong  set  in  black,  and  William  knew  that 
in  a  little  while — half  an  hour,  perhaps — there  would  come 
through  the  stillness  of  that  window  the  distant  sound  of 
violins.  That  was  a  moment  he  dreaded  with  a  dread  that 
ached.  And  as  he  lay  on  his  dreary  bed,  he  thought  of 
brightly  lighted  rooms  where  other  boys  were  dressing 
eagerly,  faces  and  hair  shining,  hearts  beating  high — boys 
who  would  possess  this  last  evening,  and  the  "last  waltz 
together,"  the  last  smile  and  the  last  sigh. 

It  did  not  once  enter  his  mind  that  he  could  go  to  the 
dance  in  his  "best  suit,"  or  that  possibly  the  other  young 
people  at  the  party  would  be  too  busy  with  their  own 
affairs  to  notice  particularly  what  he  wore.  It  was  the 
unquestionable  and  granite  fact,  to  his  mind,  that  the  whole 
derisive  World  would  know  the  truth  about  his  earlier 
appearances  in  his  father's  clothes.  And  that  was  a  form 
of  ruin  not  to  be  faced.  In  the  protective  darkness  and 
seclusion  of  William's  bedroom,  it  is  possible  that  smarting 


220  "CLOTHES  MAKE  THE  MAN" 

eyes  relieved  themselves  by  blinking  rather  energetically; 
it  is  even  possible  that  there  was  a  minute  damp  spot 
upon  the  pillow.  Seventeen  cannot  always  manage  the 
little  boy  yet  alive  under  all  the  coverings. 

There  came  a  tapping  upon  the  door  and  a  soft  voice. 

"Will-ee.?" 

With  a  sharp  exclamation  William  swung  his  legs  over 
the  edge  of  the  bed  and  sat  up.  Of  all  things  he  desired 
not,  he  desired  no  conversation  with,  or  on  the  part  of, 
Jane.  But  he  had  forgotten  to  lock  his  door — the  handle 
turned,  and  a  dim  little  figure  marched  in. 

"Willie,  Adelia's  goin'  to  put  me  to  bed." 

"You  g'way  from  here,"  he  said  huskily.  "I  haven't  got 
time  to  talk  to  you.    I'm  busy." 

"Well,  you  can  wait  a  minute,  can't  your"  she  asked 
reasonably.     "I  haf  to  tell  you  a  joke  on  mamma." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  jokes !" 

"Well,  I  haf  to  tell  you  this  one  'cause  she  told  me  to! 
Oh!"  Jane  clapped  her  hand  over  her  mouth  and  jumped 
up  and  down,  offering  a  fantastic  silhouette  against  the 
light  of  the  open  door.    "Oh,  oh,  oh!" 

"What's  matter?" 

"She  said  I  mustn't,  mustn't  tell  that  she  told  me  to  tell! 
My  goodness!  I  forgot  that!  Mamma  took  me  off  alone 
right  after  dinner,  an'  she  told  me  to  tell  you  this  joke 
on  her  as  soon  as  she  an'  papa  had  left  the  house,  but  she 
said,  'Above  all  things  '  she  said,  'don't  let  Willie  know  / 
said  to  tell  him.'  That's  just  what  she  said,  an'  here  that's 
the  very  first  thing  I  had  to  go  an'  do!" 

"Well,  what  of  Ttr" 

Jane  quieted  down.  The  pangs  of  her  remorse  were 
lost  in  her  love  of  sensationalism,  and  her  voice  sank  to 
the  thrilling  whisper  which  it  was  one  of  her  greatest  pleas- 
ures to  use.  "Did  you  hear  what  a  fuss  papa  was  makin' 
when  he  was  dressin'  for  the  card-party?" 

"I  don't  care  if—" 

"He  had  to  go  in  his  reg'lar  clo'es !"  whispered  Jane 
triumphantly.  "An'  this  is  the  joke  on  mamma:  you  know 
that  tailor  that  let  papa's  dress-suit  way,  way  out;  well, 
mamma    thinks    that   tailor   must    think   she's    crazy,    or 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON  221 

somep'm,  'cause  she  took  papa's  dress-suit  to  him  last 
Monday  to  get  it  pressed  for  this  card-party,  an'  she 
guesses  he  must  of  understood  her  to  tell  him  to  do  lots 
besides  just  pressin'  it.  Anyway,  he  went  an'  altered  it, 
an'  he  took  it  way,  way  in  again;  an'  this  afternoon  when 
it  came  back  it  was  even  tighter'n  what  it  was  in  the  first 
place,  an'  papa  couldn't  begin  to  get  into  it!  Well,  an' 
so  it's  all  pressed  an'  everything,  an'  she  stopped  on  the 
way  out,  an'  whispered  to  me  that  sh'd  got  so  upset  over 
the  joke  on  her  that  she  couldn't  remember  where  she  put 
it  when  she  took  it  out  o'  papa's  room  after  he  gave  up 
tryin'  to  get  inside  of  it.  An'  that,"  cried  Jane — "that's 
the  funniest  thing  of  all !  Why,  it's  layin'  right  on  her  bed 
this  very  minute!" 

In  one  bound  William  leaped  through  the  open  door. 
Two  seconds  sufficed  for  his  passage  through  the  hall  to  his 
mother's  bedroom — and  there,  neatly  spread  upon  the  lace 
coverlet  and  brighter  than  coronation  robes,  fairer  than 
Joseph's  sacred  coat  It  lay ! 


The  People's  Home  Journal 

THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE 

BY 

AGNES  ROSS  WHITE 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE ' 

By  AGNES  ROSS  WHITE 

NOT  everywhere  does  the  Virgin  reach  down  to  help 
those  who  pray  to  her  as  she  does  at  St.  Gregoire, 
but  not  everywhere  do  people  pray  with  such  simple  faith, 
such  surety,  as  do  the  habitants  in  this  little  parish  up 
among  the  Laurentides. 

For  there  was  the  never-to-be-forgotten  time,  when 
Our  Lady  came  to  help  Diane  Dore,  the  year  the  bell  was 
hung  in  the  old  church,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Diane  was  the  child  of  her  native  hills,  beautiful,  wild 
and  solemn;  so  beautiful  that  the  country  people,  not 
understanding,  called  her  look  strange;  wild  with  a  quiet, 
pagan  wildness,  and  solemn  as  a  seer  who  beholds  the 
heart  of  the  world.  When  her  parents  died,  every  home 
in  the  parish  was  opened  to  her,  for  that  is  the  way  of 
the  habitants,  but  everywhere  she  was  an  alien.  Only 
gray-haired  Pere  Dufresne  recognized  the  miracle  of  her 
beauty  and  marveled  at  it,  or  listened  to  her  words,  even 
though  he  wondered  at  them  and  was  puzzled;  and  only 
Pere  Dufresne  loved  the  child.  So  it  came  that  she  made 
his  house  her  home;  and  there  she  lived  her  unchildlike 
life,  roaming  the  hills  by  day,  and  telling  the  cure  strange 
tales  as  they  sat  by  the  firelight  after  the  darkness  came, 
till  the  priest  wondered  if  another  Joan  the  Alaid  sat  at  his 
knee. 

From  the  solitudes  she  had  brought  strange  fancies; 
fantastic  forms  and  faces  had  she  seen  in  the  mist  on  the 
river,  a  throb  of  divine  heart-break  had  she  caught  in 
the  moaning  before  the  storm,  or  a  strain  of  weird,  un- 
earthly  music   in  the   song   of  the   hermit   thrush,   "but 

'Copyright  The  People's  Home  Journal. 


226         THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE 

never  Voices,"  thought  the  cure,  "she  never  says  she  has 
heard  Voices",  and  he  waited,  half  expectant. 

But  Diane  grew  as  a  child  grows;  and  lo,  there  came 
a  day  when  the  priest  looked  at  her,  amazed,  that  she  had 
grown  up  so  soon.  Then  his  trouble  became  an  insistent 
thing.  She  was  fifteen;  there  was  no  place  for  her  in  the 
village,  surely  none  in  the  great  world  outside;  there  was 
the  veil — and  yes,  he  would  speak  to  Monseigneur  about 
that  when  next  the  good  Bishop  should  come  to  St. 
Gregoire. 

But  before  the  Bishop  came,  St.  Gregoire  had  been 
jostled  by  the  world  beyond  the  hills.  Men  from  the  out- 
side came  into  the  valley,  drawing  lines  and  measuring 
and  placing  markers  here  and  there;  the  iron  road  was 
coming  through  St.  Gregoire,  perhaps. 

From  an  eyrie  on  the  mountain  side  Diane  watched  the 
work  of  the  strangers  with  curiosity.  She  could  under- 
stand the  work  of  the  beavers  and  the  foxes  and  the 
birds,  of  the  wind  and  the  rain,  the  frost  and  sunshine, 
even  the  work  of  the  unseen  things,  but  these  strangers 
she  could  not  explain. 

Then  one  day,  away  up  at  little  Lake  in  the  Sky,  she 
came  upon  one  of  them.  He  was  young,  very  young,  and 
never  before  had  Diane  seen  eyes  the  color  of  the  sky, 
nor  hair  that  shone  like  sunlight,  for  the  blood  of  the 
Indian  women  of  the  past  was  very  persistent  in  St. 
Gregoire. 

To  his  words  in  English  Diane  shook  her  head;  to  his 
halting  French  she  answered:  "I  am  Diane  Dore,  and 
I  live  down  there,"  pointing  to  the  valley. 

But  Diane  asked  no  questions;  she  had  found  him  in 
the  forest  on  the  mountain,  as  she  had  found  nearly  every 
thing  of  which  she  knew;  there  was  nothing  unusual  in 
question.  And  so  it  was  that  youth,  strong  and  virile, 
met  youth  in  its  virgin  freshness  and  they  walked  hand 
in  hand,  unconscious  and  content. 

But  Pere  Dufresne  was  not  content.  "No,  no,  my 
child,"  said  he,  "you  must  not  be  with  the  stranger.  It 
is  not  well  for  thee,  it  is  not  well." 

"But  why  not,   mon  pere?"  asked   Diane  in  surprise. 


AGNES    ROSS   WHITE  227 

"I  like  to  be  with  him;  I  tell  him  many  things;  he  knows 
so  little  of  all  this,"  with  a  sweep  of  her  hand  toward 
the  hills,  the  river  and  the  sky,  "and  he  is  glad  to  know, 
very  glad.     Why  should  I  not  be  with  him  to  tell  him?" 

Poor  Pere  Dufresne  stammered  in  embarrassment. 
Surely  the  Evil  One  was  digging  pitfalls  and  laying  snares 
to  entrap  him,  for  never  before  had  his  work  brought  him 
such  a  problem  as  this,  never  before  had  one  been  so 
dear  to  him  as  Diane,  for  she  had  touched  the  man-father 
in  the  priest,  and  it  wrung  his  heart  to  say  aught  to  change 
the  child — "ma  petite  pucelle,"  he  called  her  in  his  thoughts. 
Why  could  she  not  have  been  like  all  the  rest  to  him,  and 
why  need  this  stranger  have  come  to  St.  Gregoire — St. 
Gregoire  so  little  and  almost  lost  away  back  of  the  hills? 

"He  is  English  and  perhaps  a  heretic,"  he  argued, 
hoping  thus  to  avoid  the  difficulty. 

"I  do  not  know  that,"  she  answered  doubtfully.  "He 
signs  the  cross  as  I  have  told  him.     I  will  ask  him." 

And  so  Pere  Dufresne,  tender-hearted  old  man  that 
he  was,  left  the  matter,  hoping — as  so  many  a  wiser  man 
has  done — that  le  bon  Dieu  in  His  omnipotence  would 
order  the  matter  to  his  liking. 

In  good  time  the  engineers  finished  their  work  and 
went  on,  but  the  boy  remained,  for  he  was  not  of  them. 
He  had  come  for  the  fishing,  the  shooting,  for  the  primitive 
life  he  might  find;  he  might  go  or  stay  as  he  chose,  and 
the  unreckoning  will  of  youth  said,  "I  have  found  that 
which  is  good  in  my  sight;  I  shall  stop  to  enjoy." 

Days  are  to  youth  what  years  are  to  age,  and  well 
might  Pere  Dufresne  be  dismayed  at  the  result  of  his 
indecision.  Who  shall  say  when  boyhood  goes  and  man- 
hood comes?  Who  shall  say,  that  minute  love  was  not, 
this  minute  it  is?  Certain  It  was  that  the  boy  listened 
to  Diane's  half-savage,  half-religious  mysticism,  charmed 
and  absorbed.  The  old  druid  spirit,  that  had  worshipped 
under  the  oak  trees  of  Britain  lived  again  in  this  son  of  an 
ancient  soil,  and  in  the  reincarnation  the  bov  became  a 
man  and  loved  this  woman,  unconsciously  and  naturally 
as  the  flower  loves  the  sunlight,  or  the  bird  the  freedom  of 
the  air. 


228  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE 

But  when  she  was  not  with  him,  when  he  sat  by  his 
campfire  with  the  darkness  about  him,  he  remembered 
that  he  was  from  beyond  the  hills;  he  saw  his  lady- 
mother  and  the  ivy-grown  walls  of  home,  a  home  which 
would  be  prison  to  Diane,  a  home  in  which  he  knew 
she  could  never  have  a  place.  Then  he  saw  Diane,  saw 
the  beauty  of  her  eyes,  heard  the  sweetness  of  her  voice, 
above  all  felt  the  purity  of  her  spirit;  and  it  was  Diane  of 
whom  he  dreamed. 

These  musings  by  his  campfire  kept  alive  the  man  of 
convention,  and  he  knew  he  must  go  down  to  the  priest 
in  the  valley  and  claim  this  woman  in  the  way  decreed 
by  man. 

Summer  passed  and  the  foliage  glowed  and  faded. 
Indian  summer  came,  like  a  flower  flung  back  by  a  band 
of  revelers  as  they  danced  madly  and  merrily  away; 
then  the  nights  became  crisp  and  frosty,  and  the  day 
arrived  when  he  said  to  Diane  as  they  sat  watching  the 
passing  of  the  wild  geese:  "I  saw  the  geese  yesterday; 
I  saw  them  the  day  before;  to-day — ^to-morrow,  perhaps — 
soon  I  must  follow.     I  must  leave  the  hills." 

She  turned  to  him  quickly  with  a  look  and  gesture  of 
startled  bewilderment.  He  leaned  forward  and  laid  his 
hand  on  hers. 

"Look  at  me,  Diane — straight  in  my  eyes  as  I  talk  to 
you.  You  can  come  with  me.  Think  of  it.  Away  to- 
gether to  see  more  beautiful  things,  away  to  the  south- 
ward with  the  wild  geese,  till  the  cold  is  gone,  then  to 
rivers  and  lakes  and  mountains  again.  We  shall  be  to- 
gether all  the  days — always;  we  shall  watch  the  sunrise 
and  sunset  together;  we  shall  stand  before  the  priest  and 
he  shall  send  us  away  man  and  wife.  Do  you  know  why 
people  marry,  Diane.'*  Because  they  want  each  other  as 
I  want  you,  to  have  against  all  others — because  they  love. 
Do  you  know  what  I  mean.^  Can  you  want  me  like  that, 
Diane?" 

As  he  bent  nearer  to  her  she  felt  the  hand  clasping  hers 
tighten,  and  the  blood  throbbing  in  his  fingers.  For  a 
long  time  they  sat  and  her  gaze  did  not  falter.    The  com- 


AGNES    ROSS   WHITE  229 

panionship  of  the  weeks  had  changed,  and  she  felt  a  new- 
knowledge  and  a  new  joy,  indefinable  yet  overwhelming. 
Then  slowly  she  answered  him. 

"Yes,  I  want  you  like  that.  I  know  what  you  mean. 
But — there  is  more.  I  cannot  tell  what  it  is;  perhaps  I 
know  not  the  words.    Can  you  say  it?" 

"No,  Diane,  sweetheart,  only  that  it  is  love,  and  no 
one  can  tell  what  it  is.  It  is  like  life,  we  can  only  live  it, 
dear." 

"Then  we  will  live  it  together,  you  and  I,"  she  said. 

And  she  listened  to  Love's  old  tale,  not  with  blushes, 
not  with  downcast  eyes,  but  with  face  and  eyes  lifted  to 
her  lover  with  a  glad  new  light  in  them.  And  he  said  not 
that  the  world  was  well  lost  for  love — the  world  was  for- 
gotten. 

They  went  hand  in  hand  down  the  hillside,  straight 
to  the  priest's  door.  The  old  man  wept  with  remorse, 
and  blamed  himself  for  neglected  duty,  while  Diane  stood 
in  silent  distress.  At  last,  falling  on  her  knees  by  his  side, 
she  pressed  his  fingers  to  her  lips  and  pleaded. 

"Ah,  mon  pcre,  vion  perc,  you  hurt  me  so.  Is  it  you  do 
not  now  love  your  little  Diane.''  Look  at  the  others  in 
the  parish;  you  have  blessed  them  and  let  them  go  away 
together,  and  you  did  not  weep.  I  love  you,  vion  pere, 
but  I  must  go,  I  must  go.     Let  me  go  like  the  rest." 

Sadly  Pere  Dufresne  placed  his  hand  on  her  bowed 
head  and  smoothed  her  heavy,  black  hair.  "It  has  come, 
even  to  my  little  maid,  ma  petite  pucelle,  whom  I  had 
thought  so  far  removed  from  man's  love.  My  daughter, 
this  love  of  man  brings  labor  and  sorrow,  brings  pain 
and  tears,  and  you  would  go  even  if  it  must  be  that  you 
shall  bear  pain  and  sorrow  and  weep  your  tears  alone?" 

He  spoke  more  to  himself  than  to  her,  but  she  raised 
her  head  and  answered  quickly  as  if  understanding  his 
meaning,  or  it  may  be  the  new-born  woman  spoke  within 
her. 

"Yes,  father,  I  see  the  women  labor,  and  the  labor  Is 
hard  and  the  days  are  long;  I  see  the  children  many,  and 
the  women  grow  old  with  each  one;  and  I  saw  Delize 


n  -7 


30         THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE 

Paquette  crying  because  there  was  no  one  to  stand  in  the 
church  as  father  to  her  baby;  but,  mon  pere,  I  see,  too,  the 
men  and  women  coming  from  the  long  day's  labor  to- 
gether, and  they  are  happy;  I  see  the  children  bring  smiles 
to  their  mothers'  tired  eyes,  and  again  they  are  happy; 
and  I  see  Delize  kiss  her  baby,  even  as  my  mother  kissed 
me,  and  she  is  happier  with  that  kiss  than  Madame  Bisson 
who  has  no  child.  Bless  me  and  let  me  go,  mon  pere, 
for  my  happiness  has  gone  before  and  beckons  to  me,  and 
always  I  see  the  man's  love  leading  it." 

"Enough,  my  daughter,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish,  and  may 
Our  Lady  have  you  in  her  holy  keeping." 

And  so  Diane  was  wed,  not  before  the  altar,  no,  not 
there,  for  the  stranger  was  not  of  the  faith,  but  without 
the  church  door,  just  where  the  gaze  of  Our  Lady,  high  up 
in  her  niche  near  the  roof,  seemed  to  rest  with  benign  love 
and   pity. 

Then,  hand  in  hand,  as  Diane  and  her  lover  had  come 
down  the  mountain  side,  so  they  went  down  the  valley, 
away  from  St.  Gregoire  to  where  her  happiness  seemed 
beckoning  her.  They  paused  away  down  where  the  valley 
turns  sharp  behind  the  last  of  the  hills;  the  church  could 
just  be  seen,  a  little  white  speck  in  the  distance. 

"Oh,  if  I  might  know  that  day  by  day  the  good  father 
will  feel  that  I  think  of  him  always.  There  will  be  no  one 
now  to  talk  to  him  by  the  firelight,  no  one  to  tell  him  the 
words  of  the  hills."  Diane's  tone  was  not  one  of  regretful 
longing,  but  rather  a  great  wish  that  the  priest  might  not 
feel  that  she  had  left  him  alone. 

"If  there  were  something  which  you  might  give  him, 
something  which  would  always  speak  for  you,"  the 
stranger  had  answered,  feeling  that  he  had  indeed  taken 
the  sunshine  and  the  song  from  the  old  man's  life.  "Can 
you  think  of  something,  Diane,  that  will  please  him 
much?" 

"There  is  something,"  she  said,  "but  I  cannot  give  him 
that." 

"But  tell  me;  perhaps  you  may." 

"It  is  a  bell;  we  have  never  had  one.     It  takes  very 


AGNES   ROSS   WHITE  231 

much  money  to  buy  a  bell;  the  people  have  flax  and  grain, 
but,  oh,  so  little  money.  Pere  Dufresne  said  le  bon  Dieu 
might  send  us  one  some  time  if  we  were  not  forgetful." 

"A  bell  it  shall  be  that  you  shall  give  him,"  the  stranger 
promised,  but  Diane  only  smiled  wistfully  and  turned 
away. 

And  so  they  passed  beyond  the  turn  in  the  valley,  and 
the  hills  shut  them  away  from  St.  Gregoire. 

Soon  the  snows  of  winter  fell  upon  all  the  hills,  and 
more  than  ever  was  St.  Gregoire  lost  to  the  great  world 
outside.  In  the  long  evenings  Pere  Dufresne  sat  by  his 
fire  alone,  conjuring  up  the  face  of  his  little  maid  in  the 
moving  shadows,  and  dreaming,  till  he  almost  heard  her 
voice  as  he  used  to  hear  it — '''Mais  oui,  mon  pere,  that  is 
what  the  bird  in  the  cedars  said  to  me  as  I  came  by  the 
swamp  at  sunset."  It  was  thus  that  he  thought  of  her, 
and  always  with  a  great  foreboding  and  self-condemna- 
tion. Day  after  day  dragged  slowly  by  until  at  last  the 
winter  was  gone,  but  neither  the  spring  nor  the  summer 
brought  assurance  to  the  old  priest  or  eased  his  loneli- 
ness. One  thing  there  came  to  arouse  the  parish,  even 
as  the  engineers  had  with  their  suggestion  of  a  railroad. 
In  the  early  summer  a  letter  had  come  from  over  the 
sea  saying  their  bell  would  be  ready  in  the  autumn. 
From  whom  it  was  to  come  they  knew  not;  le  bon  Dieu 
had  indeed  remembered  them. 

Then,  as  the  days  grew  chill  again,  that  which  the 
priest  expected  and  dreaded  happened — Diane  came  back 
— Diane  and  her  baby.  Her  husband  had  sailed  away 
to  Englaod,  to  his  mother  who  was  dying;  as  for  herself, 
she  could  not  bear  the  town  alone,  she  must  come  back 
to  the  old  familiar  river  and  her  hills  to  wait  for  him. 
That  was  the  simple  story  she  had  to  tell;  to  her  it  was  suf- 
ficient, but  she  read  anger  and  grief  on  the  priest's  face. 

"This  is  the  happiness  you  sought,  the  thing  I  let  you 
wander  out  into  the  world  to  find,  and  I  knew,  I  knew." 

As  he  bowed  his  head  in  sorrow,  Diane  knelt  and 
pleaded  as  she  had  once  before. 

"Ah,  mon  pere,  it  is  not  that  you  should  grieve,  for  I 


232  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE 

found  my  happiness.  I  am  happy  now,  a  little  lonely, 
perhaps,  till  he  shall  come  for  me,  but  he  will  come.  I 
tell  you  he  will  come,"  she  repeated  in  eager  defense  as 
she  noted  the  pained  look  of  doubt.  "He  is  gone  as  I  told 
you,  but  I  chose  to  stay.  Besides,  I  am  not  alone;  here 
is  my  child,  father.  The  days  may  be  long,  but  he  will 
come.  As  I  came  here  I  heard  the  people  talking  of  a 
bell.  It  is  not  yet  hung,  but  when  it  rings  for  the  first 
time  I  shall  know  he  will  not  be  far  away." 

The  prophecy  came  to  her  as  an  inspiration,  and  her 
tone  of  loneliness  changed  to  one  of  trust  and  surety. 

A  tiny  log  house  on  the  river  bank  she  took  for  her 
home.  The  cure  found  that  his  old  housekeeper  needed 
strong,  young  arms  to  lift  the  burden  of  her  work,  and 
so  Diane  settled  into  a  quiet  nook,  more  silent  than  of 
old,  and  if  her  longing  and  weary  waiting  found  words, 
they  were  whispered  to  baby  ears  by  the  fireside  in  the 
little  cabin  by  the  river. 

And  the  bell?  There  was  something  strange  about  it. 
Autumn  passed  and  winter  came,  but  no  tidings  of  the 
bell.  In  the  spring  came  a  letter  from  England  saying 
that  the  ship  bringing  the  bell  had  foundered  in  the  Gulf 
and  her  cargo  was  lost.  Another  bell  would  come  by  the 
next  autumn  perhaps.  Poor  Diane!  It  seemed  an  an- 
swer to  her  unwitting  prophecy. 

The  snow  disappeared  and  the  birds  and  flowers  came 
with  a  rush,  as  they  always  come  to  the  Northland.  When 
her  work  was  done,  Diane  would  take  her  boy  in  her  arms 
and  wander  away  to  the  forests  on  the  hillsides.  She 
could  seek  sympathy  nowhere  else.  The  old  familiar 
groves  and  hollows  and  peaks  made  her  feel  a  strange 
calmness  and  resignation  after  stormy  nights  of  despair 
and  dying  hope.  Lip  here  it  seemed  that  her  husband 
must  be  dead,  or  he  would  have  come;  down  there  by 
the  river  the  torturing  thought  of  desertion  and  lost  love 
nearly  drove  her  mad.  Lip  here  under  the  trees  she  told 
over  and  over  again  to  her  baby  what  his  father  had 
said  when  she  walked  here  with  him;  what  he  would  say 
if  he  ever  came  back;  and  if  he  did  not  come  back  they 
must  know  he  was  dead. 


AGNES  ROSS  WHITE  233 

Thus  the  summer  passed  and  autumn  came  again.  How 
she  dreaded  the  winter  with  its  long  evenings  and  the 
snow-bound  world,  when  there  would  be  naught  but  the 
whistling  wind,  the  driving  snow,  the  faint  murmur  of 
the  river  under  the  ice,  and  her  thoughts. 

Then  one  sabbath  Pcre  Dufresne  told  them  that  the 
bell  would  be  there  in  a  week.  How  Diane's  heart  leaped 
with  a  vague,  new  hope!  No  one  knew  it  was  her  bell, 
and  that  it  was  so  near  seemed  proof  that  he  was  alive 
and  had  not  forgotton  her. 

At  last  it  came.  All  the  parish  crowded  around  as  it 
was  being  lifted  from  the  cart.  Diane  looked  on  from  the 
outer  edge  of  the  circle,  pale  and  disturbed,  holding  her 
baby  so  close  that  he  whimpered  with  pain. 

Suddenly  an  exclamation  of  anger  and  disappointment 
burst  from  the  people.  A  clumsy  handler  had  let  his 
burden  slip  and  the  bell  had  struck  with  a  jarring  ring — 
its  last  note.  An  ugly  crack  from  bottom  to  top  had 
silenced  its  voice  before  it  could  speak  for  St.  Gregoire. 

Diane  sank  to  her  knees  with  a  sob.  It  was  all  over; 
her  last  faint  hope  was  gone.  Now  she  was  certain  he 
must  be  dead.  No  one  noticed  her,  for  all  were  listening 
to  the  cure  who  was  reading  aloud  an  inscription  on  the 
broken  bell. 

"What.^     Whose  gift.'     Read  it  again,  father." 

Diane  had  paid  no  heed  to  the  cure's  words,  but  the 
deep  silence  roused  her  to  find  them  all  regarding  her  with 
surprised  awe. 

"My  daughter,"  said  the  cure  as  he  came  to  her  side, 
"the  Blessed  Virgin  has  sent  her  gift  in  your  name;  she 
has  looked  on  her  handmaiden  with  love  and  favor." 

She  arose  bewildered  and  he  led  her  to  the  bell,  but  she 
turned  away  calm  and  tearless. 

"No,  no,  father.  It  means  he  is  dead  and  will  not  come. 
Let  me  go  home." 

Silently  they  stood  aside  and  watched  her  go  down  the 
hill.  In  her  sorrow  Diane  had  touched  their  hearts.  The 
cure's  eyes  were  dim,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  blessed 
them  and  sent  them  away. 


234         THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE 

And  now  Pere  Dufresne  bethought  him  that  the  Bishop 
might  help  them,  and  the  bell  was  sent  back  to  Quebec, 

By  return  messenger  came  the  word  that  it  would  be 
recast,  that  the  parish  should  have  its  bell.  This  Diane  did 
not  know,  as  the  cure  thought  to  calm  her  grief  the  sooner 
if  she  had  no  false  hope. 

After  a  little  she  went  about  her  task  as  before.  Her 
winter  evenings  were  spent  now  in  braiding  straw  hats. 
At  times,  when  the  straw  broke  in  her  weary  fingers,  she 
would  lay  it  aside,  and  kneeling  by  the  rude  cradle, 
would  pour  out  the  sorrows  of  her  broken  heart  in  wailing 
murmurs. 

"Ah,  why  must  I  suffer  so  when  I  know  he  is  dead? 
My  heart  aches  for  one  day  with  him,  even  for  one  mo- 
ment. Why  do  I  start  when  the  wind  shakes  the  door? 
Why  do  I  listen  for  footsteps  in  the  whistling  of  the  gale? 
Why  cannot  I  feel  that  he  is  dead  when  I  know  he  must 
be?  Why  do  I  wake  in  the  night  feeling  his  kiss  on  my 
lips?  Why  does  the  sound  of  his  voice  still  fall  on  my  ear, 
and  the  light  of  his  eyes  meet  mine  in  the  twilight?  Oh, 
Mother  of  Christ,  give  me  peace  and  strength,  or  the 
silence  of  death  for  my  child  and  me." 

In  the  last  days  of  the  winter  word  came  again  concern- 
ing the  bell,  and  a  few  days  later  came  the  bell  itself. 
Great  care  was  taken  this  time.  The  people  were  ready 
to  look  upon  it  as  a  thing  bewitched,  and  even  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  attempting  to  hang  it;  but  the  cure  exorcised 
their  superstition.  It  was  blest,  and  the  day  came  when 
it  would  hang  in  the  steeple  before  all  St.  Gregoire. 

Diane  had  felt  only  pain  when  she  heard  that  the  bell 
had  come.  She  cared  nothing  for  ceremonies  and  she  had 
no  curiosity,  so  through  it  all  she  kept  steadily  at  her  work, 
not  even  glancing  toward  the  church  on  her  way  home. 

Fate  was  kinder  now,  and  at  last  the  bell  was  in  place, 
but  the  first  ringing  was  to  be  for  mass  on  the  sabbath; 
and  so  it  waited. 

The  winter  had  been  a  terrible  one.  Snow  storm  fol- 
lowed snow  storm  till  the  drifts  piled  higher  than  ever 


AGNES    ROSS   WHITE  235 

before.  People  along  the  river  prayed  for  a  gentle  spring, 
with  only  south  wind  and  sunshine.  Heavy  rains  meant 
disaster,  perhaps  destruction  to  their  all. 

Before  the  sabbath  dawned,  that  which  they  dreaded 
came;  it  rained,  a  steady  downpour  for  many  hours,  then 
a  deluge.  The  ice  on  the  river  had  had  no  time  to  melt, 
and  the  floods  from  the  slopes  above  poured  over  it  with- 
out breaking  it  up.  Helplessly  the  people  watched  the 
torrent  swell  and  spread.  Nearly  every  one  had  moved 
what  he  could  to  higher  land,  each  one  striving  for  him- 
self. Night  came  on,  dark  and  dreadful.  There  was  no 
sleep  even  on  the  hillsides.  The  sound  of  the  waters  had 
been  deep  and  threatening,  but  suddenly  in  the  darkness 
they  burst  forth  in  a  roaring  crash.  Something  had  hap- 
pened in  the  lake  above.  Thank  God,  every  one  had 
had  time  to  escape  danger.  Now  thoughts  turned  to  fellow 
creatures  and  their  safety.  Yes,  all  seemed  to  be  safe. 
But  where  was  Diane  and  the  child?  In  the  cure's  house, 
of  course.  No?  God  in  heaven!  Was  she  down  there 
by  the  river? 

"Men  to  the  rescue!"  shouted  the  cure. 

In  a  moment  he  had  hurried  to  the  bell  rope,  and  for 
the  first  time  the  Bell  of  St.  Gregoire  rang  out  clear  and 
strong,  even  before  the  roar  of  the  storm  and  the  battle 
of  the  waters. 

At  dusk  Diane  had  looked  at  the  river  almost  touching 
her  threshold;  but  the  high  land  lay  back  of  her;  she 
would  not  be  cut  off  without  warning.  She  dressed  the 
child  warmly  before  he  went  to  sleep,  placed  their  outer 
garments  in  readiness,  piled  the  logs  on  the  hearth  and  sat 
down  to  wait. 

Suddenly  the  house  shook  and  the  water  poured  in  at 
every  opening.  She  sprang  to  the  bed,  and  in  an  instant 
they  were  ready.  But,  oh,  the  awful  darkness!  The 
house  seemed  to  be  moving  from  its  place.  The  water  was 
rising  quickly.  She  stood  dazed.  What  should  she  do? 
The  loft!  Quickly  she  mounted  the  ladder  and  broke 
open  the  window.  She  leaned  far  out — nothing  could  be 
seen.  She  could  feel  the  house  moving  away  on  the  flood. 
What  was  that?  The  bell!  She  smiled  and  laid  her  face 
close  to  the  child.     Softly  she  whispered: 


236         THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  GREGOIRE 

"Ah,  baby,  baby!  Mother  was  right  after  all.  Listen 
to  the  bell.  I  said  that  when  it  should  ring  for  the  first 
time  he  would  not  be  far  away,  and  in  a  moment  we  shall 
be  with  him.  Don't  be  afraid,  dearie.  He  will  be  waiting 
for  us,  and,  at  last,  after  all  this  long,  long  time,  we  shall 
be  together  all  the  days,  as  he  used  to  tell  me,  and  we  shall 
have  you  besides.  Perhaps  he  can  see  us  now  coming 
nearer." 

She  laughed  a  happy  little  laugh,  the  first  since  she  had 
come  back  to  St.  Gregoire.  The  child  was  quiet,  soothed 
by  the  gentle  crooning  as  she  murmured  on. 

"Diane!  Diane!  Shout!  Call  to  me!  I  am  here," 
came  faintly  to  her  ears  over  the  waters  out  of  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Listen,  listen,  my  little  one.  He  is  calling  to  us. 
Blessed  Virgin,  I  thank  thee."  Then  loud  and  clear: 
"Here!    Here  am  I,  your  Diane." 

Again  came  the  cry,  louder  and  nearer, 

"Call  again,  Diane!     Be  brave!" 

Again  she  called.  "We  are  nearer,  nearer,"  she  whis- 
pered.   "Soon  it  will  be  light,  the  great,  beautiful  Dawn!" 

Something  else  was  whirling  along  the  way  with  them — 
it  loomed  near  her  window.  Again  the  cry,  almost  within 
reach. 

"Courage  a  little  longer,  Diane.  Now!  Hold  closely  to 
me !" 

Our  Lady  had  indeed  looked  with  favor  on  her  hand- 
maiden, for  who,  think  you,  had  brought  the  stranger 
over  sea  and  land,  through  storm  and  peril,  by  snowshoe 
and  sled  track,  even  into  the  darkness,  to  answer  to  the 
call  of  the  bell  in  Diane's  great  need?  Who  had  made 
him  listen  to  the  song  of  his  heart,  even  though  the  music 
of  home  had  been  loud  in  his  ears,  and  brought  him 
dreams  such  as  he  had  dreamed  by  his  campfire  that  sum- 
mer, until  he  could  hear  Diane's  voice — and  his  baby's? 

Israel  Gagnon  knows,  and  Victor  Brassard  knows  and 
Grandmere  Touchette  knows  and  the  little  habitant  girl 
at  her  flax  wheel  knows.  For  as  the  vesper  tones  ebb  and 
flow  around  the  hills   and   along  the  valley  I   hear   her 


AGNES   ROSS   WHITE  237 

murmur  Diane's  name  and  a  little  prayer  to  Our  Lady, 
for  our  little  maid,  too.  has  a  lover;  and  as  I  listen  to  the 
bell,  now  "so  beeg  it  feel  all  de  worl',  beeger  den  all  de 
mountain',''  and  now  "so  small  an'  sof  I  can  jus'  feel  it 
inside  me,"  I,  too,  know  who  brought  the  stranger  back 
to  his  wife  and  child. 


Pictorial 


THE  EVENING  RICE 

BY 

ACHMED  ABDULLAH 


THE  EVENING  RICE ' 
By  ACHMED  ABDULLAH 

Up  there  in  the  gray  North  a  great  triple  tomb  thrusts  its  frownmg 
parapet  obliquely  into  space.  On  its  outer  walls,  to  left  and  right  of 
the  entrance,  are  bas-reliefs  in  sea-green  majolica,  representing  five- 
claw,  imperial  dragons. 

It  is  the  Fu-Ling,  the  Happy  and  August  Tomb,  where  lies  the  T'ai 
Tzu,  the  Nurhachi,  the  Iron-capped  Prince,  the  founder  of  the  Manchu 
dynasty,  who  centuries  ago  swept  out  of  the  barren  Central  Asian 
wastes  at  the  head  of  his  host  of  red-skinned,  flat-nosed  horsemen,  and 
turned  placid  China  into  a  crimson  shambles. 

Last  year  the  hereditary  keeper  of  the  sacred  tomb,  a  Ch'i-jen,  a 
Manchu  bannerman,  sold  it  to  a  moon  faced  Chinese  farmer  for  a  lean 
sack  of  clipped  silver  taels.  Next  year  it  will  house  the  farmer's  squeal- 
ing, red-bristled  pigs. 

And  still  the  Manchu  has  his  sword  and  the  strength  of  his  sword- 
arm  ;  still  the  moon-faced  coolie  is  a  coward  who  shrinks  at  the  swish 
and  crackle  of  naked  steel. 

Yet,  next  year,  the  pigs  will  dirty  the  tomb's  yellow  imperial  tiles. 

And  the  pigs,  too,  are  symbolic — and  necessary. 

For  what  is  the  evening  rice  without  a  few  slivers  of  fried  pork? 

THE  last  time  Ng  Ch'u  had  seen  him  had  been  nearly 
forty  years  earlier  in  the  squat  little  Manchu-Chinese 
border  town  of  Ninguta,  in  the  hushed  shelter  of  an  en- 
ameled pagoda-roof  that  mirrored  the  sun-rays  a  thou- 
sandfold, like  countless  intersecting;  rainbows — endless 
zigzag  flashings  of  electric  blue  and  deep  rose  and  keen, 
arrogant,  glaucous-green,  like  the  shooting  of  dragon-flies 
and  purple-winged  tropical  moths.  There  had  been  mur- 
der in  the  other's,  the  Manchu's,  eyes;  murder  in  the 
hairy,  brown  fist  that  curled  about  broad,  glistening  steel. 

But  on  that  day  he,  the  despised  Chinese  coolie,  had 
had  the  whip-hand. 

"A  Manchu  you  are!"  he  had  said;  and  his  eyes  had 
glistened  triumphantly  through  meager  almond  slits.     "A 

*  Copyright  Pictorial  Review.     ' 


242  THE  EVENING  RICE 

Manchu  indeed !  A  Pao-i  bannerman,  an  aristocrat — 
sloughing  your  will  and  your  passions  as  snakes  cast  their 
skin,  brooking  no  master  but  yourself  and  the  black  desert 
thunder!  And  I  am  only  a  mud-turtle  from  the  land  of 
Han."  He  had  sucked  in  his  breath.  "But — "  he  had 
continued;  had  slurred  and  stopped. 

"But?" 

"But — there  is  one  thing,  perhaps  two,  which  the  Huang 
T'ai  Hou,  the  Empress,  the  Old  Buddha,  does  not  forgive 
— not  even  in  a  Manchu,  an  iron-capped  prince!" — and 
a  few  more  words,  sibilant,  staccato,  and  at  once  Yang 
Shen-hsiu  had  sheathed  his  dagger  with  a  little  dry, 
metallic  click  and  had  walked  away,  while  Ng  Ch'u  had 
returned  to  his  home. 

There  he  had  kowtowed  deeply  before  an  elderly  peas- 
ant woman  with  bound  feet,  gnarled  hands,  and  shriveled, 
berry-brown  features. 

"Mother,"  he  had  said,  "I  am  going  away  to-day.  I 
am  going  away  nozv.  I — and  the  Moon-beam!" — pointing 
into  the  inner  room  at  a  lissom,  blue-clad  form  that  was 
bending  over  the  cooking-pots. 

"Why,  son?" 

"There  is  Yang  Shen-hsiu,  the  Manchu!" 

"But— I  thought—" 

"Yes.  I  know.  But  a  Manchu  never  forgets.  And 
some  day — perhaps  to-morrow — his  passion  and  his 
hatred,  since  he  is  a  fool,  will  vanquish  his  fear.  On  that 
day — by  Buddha  and  by  Buddha — I  shall  not  be  here. 
Nor  shall  the  Moon-beam !" 

Nearly  forty  years  earlier — and  now  he  saw  him  again. 

For  just  the  fraction  of  a  second,  the  unexpected  sight 
of  those  glittering,  hooded  eyes — for  he  was  conscious 
of  Yang  Shen-hsiu's  eyes  even  before  he  saw  the  rest  of 
the  face:  the  thin  nose  beaking  av/ay  bold  and  aquiline, 
the  high  cheekbones  that  seemed  to  give  beneath  the  pres- 
sure of  the  leathery,  ruddy-gold  skin,  the  compressed,  sar- 
donic lips  brushed  by  a  drooping  Mandarin  mustache, 
and  the  flagging,  combative  chin — for  just  the  fraction  of 
a  second,  the  unexpected  sight  of  those  sinister  eyes,  rising 
quickly  like  some  evil  dream  from  the  human  maelstrom 
that  streaked  down  Forty-second  Street,  threw  Ng  Ch'u 


ACHMED  ABDULLAH  243 

off  his  guard.  It  conquered  in  him  the  long  habit  of  out- 
ward self-control  which  he  had  acquired  in  a  lifetime  of 
tight  bargaining,  of  matching  his  algebraic  Mongol  cunning 
against  the  equal  cunning  of  his  countrymen. 

He  stopped  still.  His  round,  butter-yellow  face  was 
marked  by  a  look  of  almost  ludicrous  alarm.  His  tiny, 
pinkish  button  of  a  nose  crinkled  and  sniffled  like  that  of  a 
frightened  rabbit.  His  pudgy,  comfortable  little  hands 
opened  and  shut  convulsively.  His  jaw  felt  swollen,  out 
of  joint.  His  tongue  seemed  heavy,  clogging,  like  some- 
thing which  did  not  belong  to  him  and  which  he  must  try 
to  spit  out.  Little  blue  and  crimson  wheels  gyrated  madly 
in  front  of  his  bulging  eyes. 

Ng  Ch'u  was  a  coward.  He  knew  it.  Nor  was  he 
ashamed  of  It.  To  him  a  prosy,  four-square,  sublimely 
practical  Chinese,  reckless,  unthinking  courage  seemed  in- 
comprehensible, and  he  was  too  honest  a  man  to  find 
fascination  or  worth  in  anything  he  could  not  understand. 

Still  it  was  one  thing  to  be  afraid,  by  which  one  lost 
no  face  to  speak  of,  and  another  to  appear  afraid,  by  which 
one  often  lost  a  great  deal  of  face  and  of  profit,  and  so  he 
collected  himself  with  an  effort  and  greeted  the  Manchu 
with  his  usual,  faintly  ironic  ease  of  manner. 

"Ten  thousand  years,  ten  thousand  years!" 

"And  yet  another  year!"  came  the  courtly  reply;  and, 
after  a  short  pause,  "Ah — friend  Ng  Ch'u !"  Showing 
that  recognition   had  been   mutual. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  smiling,  tranquil,  touching 
palm  to  palm.  They  were  carefully,  even  meticulously, 
dressed:  the  Chinese  In  neat  pin-stripe  worsted,  bowler 
hat,  glossy  cordovan  brogues  that  showed  an  inch  of 
brown-silk  hose,  and  a  sober  shepherd's-plaid  necktie  In 
which  twinkled  a  diamond  horseshoe  pin;  the  Manchu  in 
pontifical  Prince  Albert  and  shining  high  hat  with  the 
correct  eight  reflections.  Both,  at  least  sartorlally,  were  a 
very  epitome  of  the  influence  of  West  over  East. 

In  that  motley  New  York  crowd,  nobody  could  have 
guessed  that  here,  in  neat  pin-stripe  worsted  and  pontifical 


244  THE  EVENING  RICE 

Prince  Albert,  stood  tragedy  incarnate:  tragedy  that  had 
started,  four  decades  earUer,  in  a  Manchu-Chinese  border 
town,  with  a  girl's  soft  song  flung  from  a  painted  balcony; 
that  had  threatened  to  congeal  into  darkening  blood,  and 
that  had  faded  out  in  a  whispered,  sardonic  word  about 
the  Huang  T'ai  Hou,  the  Empress,  the  Old  Buddha,  and 
a  coolie's  stupendous  Odyssey  from  a  mud-chinked 
Ninguta  hut  to  a  gleaming  Fifth  Avenue  shop;  tragedy 
that,  by  the  same  token,  had  started  four  centuries  earlier 
when  red-faced,  flat-nosed  Tatars,  led  by  iron-capped 
Manchu  chiefs,  had  poured  out  of  Central  Asia,  to  be  niet 
by  submissiveness — the  baffling  submissiveness  of  placid, 
yellow  China — the  submissiveness  of  a  rubber  ball  that 
jumps  back  into  place  the  moment  you  remove  the  pres- 
sure of  your  hand — the  submissiveness  of  a  race  that, 
being  old  and  wise,  prefers  the  evening  meal  of  rice  and 
fried  pork  to  epic,  clanking  heroics. 

For  a  moment  Ng  Ch'u  wondered — and  shivered 
slightly  at  the  thought — if  Yang  Shen-hsiu's  perfectly 
tailored  coat  might  hold  the  glimmer  of  steel.  Then  he 
reconsidered.  This  was  New  York,  and  the  noon  hour, 
and  Forty-second  Street,  youthful,  shrill,  but  filled  with 
tame,  warm  conveniences,  and  safe — sublimely  safe. 

"I  hope  I  see  you  well,  honorable  Manchu?"  he  asked 
casually,  lighting  an  expensive,  gold-tipped  cigaret  with 
fingers  that  were  quite  steady. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Yang  Shen-hsiu.  "I  am  in  ex- 
cellent health.     And  yourself?" 

"Nothing  to  complain  of." 

"And — "  purred  the  Manchu;  and,  beneath  the  gentle, 
gliding  accents,  the  other  could  sense  the  hard,  unfalter- 
ing resolve  of  hatred  emerging  from  the  dim,  wiped-over 
crepuscule  of  forty  years  Into  new,  brazen,  arrogant  free- 
dom— "the — Moon-beam  r" 

"Is  the  Moon-beam  no  longer." 

"Her  spirit  has  leaped  the  dragon  gate — has  rejoined 
the  spirits  of  her  worthy  ancestors?" 

"No,  no."  Ng  Ch'u  gave  a  little,  lopsided  laugh.  "But 
the  Moon-beam — alas! — has  become  Madame  Full  Moon. 
She  has  grown  exceedingly  fat.  As  fat  as  a  peasant's 
round  measure  of  butter.   Ahee!  ahoo!  Age  fattens  all — 


ACHMED  ABDULLAH  245 

age  softens  all — and  everything — "    His  voice  trembled  a 
little,  and  he  repeated,  "All  and  everything!" 

Then,  rather  anxiously,  his  head  to  one  side,  with  a 
patient  and  inquiring  glance  in  his  eyes, 

"Does  it  not,  Yang  Shen-hsiu?" 

The  latter  scratched  his  cheek  delicately  with  a  long, 
highly  polished  finger-nail. 

"Yes,"  he  said  unhurriedly.  "Age  softens  all  and 
everything — except  belike — " 

"So  there  are  exceptions.^"  came  the  meek  query. 

"Yes,  Ng  Ch'u.  Three."  A  light  eddied  up  in  the  glit- 
tering, hooded  eyes.  "A  sword,  a  stone,  and — ah — a 
Manchu." 

Ng  Ch'u  dropped  his  cigaret.  He  put  his  fingers  to- 
gether, nervously,  tip  against  tip. 

"You  have  recently  arrived  in  America?"  he  asked  after 
a  short  silence. 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  bored,  indifferent  politeness, 
merely  as  if  to  make  conversation.  But  the  other  looked 
up  sharply.    The  ghost  of  a  smile  curled  his  thin  lips. 

"My  friend,"  he  replied,  "I,  too,  am  familiar  with  the 
inexplicable  laws  of  these  foreign  barbarians  which  put 
the  yellow  man  even  beneath  the  black  in  human  worth 
and  civic  respect.  I,  too,  know  that  we  of  the  black-haired 
race  are  not  permitted  to  enter  this  free  land — unless  we 
be  students  or  great  merchants  or  dignitaries  of  China  or 
came  here  years  ago — like  you.  I  realize,  furthermore, 
that  babbling,  leaky  tongues  can  whisper  cunning  words  to 
the  immigration  authorities — can  spill  the  tea  for  many  a 
worthy  coolie  who  makes  his  living  here  on  the  strength 
of  a  forged  passport.  But — "  smoothly,  calmly,  as  Ng 
Ch'u  tried  to  interrupt,  "it  so  happened  that  the  Old 
Buddha  looked  upon  me  with  favor  before  she  resigned 
her  earthly  dignities  and  ascended  the  dragon.  I,  the  very 
undeserving  one,  have  been  showered  with  exquisite 
honors.  Very  recently  I  was  sent  to  America  in  an  official 
capacity.  Thus — as  to  the  Chinese  exclusion  law,  also  as 
to  babbling,  leaky  tongues  that  whisper  here  and  there — 
do  not  trouble,  Ng  Ch'u.  Your  tongue  might  catch  cold — 
and  would  not  that  cause  your  honorable  teeth  to  shrivel?" 


246  THE  EVENING  RICE 

He  paused,  stared  at  the  other,  then — and  a  tremor  ran 
over  his  hawkish  features,  as  a  ripple  is  seen  upon  a  stag- 
nant pool  even  before  the  wind  of  storm  strikes  it — went 
on  in  a  voice  that  was  low  and  passionless,  yet  pregnant 
with  stony,  enormous  resolve, 

"Coolie!  I  have  never  forgotten  the  Moon-beam.  I 
have  never  forgotten  that  once  the  thought  of  her  played 
charming  cadences  on  the  lute  of  my  youthful  soul.  I 
have  never  forgotten  that  once  her  image  was  the  painted 
pleasure-boat  that  floated  gently  on  the  waters  of  my 
dream-ruffled  sleep.  I — ah — I  have  never  forgotten  that 
once  the  Aloon-beam  was  a  yellow,  silken  rose,  and  that  a 
coolie  brushed  the  bloom  from  her  petals  with  his  ob- 
jectionable lips.    No — I  have  never  forgotten." 

"And — "  asked  Ng  Ch'u,  a  little  diffident,  but  quite  mat- 
ter-of-fact, like  a  bazar  trader  who  is  not  yet  sure  of  the 
size  of  his  customer's  purse  and  must  therefore  bargain 
circumspectly — "is  there  no  way  to — make  you  forget?" 

"Assuredly  there  is  a  way,"  the  Manchu  laughed. 

"Oh—?" 

"What  sayeth  the  Li-Ki — ?  'Do  not  try  to  fathom  what 
has  not  yet  arrived!  Do  not  climb  the  tree  if  you'- wish 
to  catch  fish!'" 

And  Yang  Shen-hsiu  went  on  his  way,  while  Ng  Ch'u 
looked  after  him  with  a  rather  comical  expression  of  de- 
vout concentration  of  his  round  face,  clasping  and  un- 
clasping his  short,  pudgy  fingers,  pursing  his  lips,  and 
emitting  a  sort  of  melancholy  whistle. 

He  was  a  coward,  and  very  much  afraid.  He  was  only 
a  coolie,  tho  the  receiving  teller  of  the  Hudson  National 
Bank  purred  civilly  over  his  deposit-slips. 

And  the  other?  A  Manchu.  An  aristocrat.  A  sharp 
hatchet  of  a  man  who  cleaved  his  way  through  life. 
Why,  even  Yang  Shen-hsiu's  back,  beneath  the  prim  and 
decorous  folds  of  the  Prince  Albert,  gave  an  impression 
of  steely,  ruthless  efficiency — the  efficiency  of  a  hawk's 
claw  and  a  snake's  fang. 

"Assuredly,"  Ng  Ch'u  said  to  himself,  as  he  turned  east 
down  Forty-second  Street,  "if  I  were  a  fool,  I  would 
now  write  to  China  and  complete  my  funeral  arrange- 
ments.   I  would  order  longevity  boards  of  seasoned  wood 


ACHMED  ABDULLAH  247 

and  cause  the  priests  to  pick  out  a  charming  retreat  for 
my  earthly  remains.  Too,  if  I  were  a  fool,  I  might  quote 
the  Book  of  Ceremonies  and  Outer  Observances  to  the 
tiger  about  to  gore  me.  Ah — but  I  am  not  a  fool —  I 
am  only  a  coward —  I  beg  your  pardon!"  as  his  head  sunk 
on  his  chest,  he  bumped  into  an  indignant  dowager  who 
came  from  a  department  store,  her  plump  arms  crowded 
with  bargains.    "I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"Goodness!     Can't  you  see  where  you're  going — ?" 

A  bundle  dropped.  Ng  Ch'u  bent  to  pick  it  up.  So  did 
the  woman.  Ng  Ch'u  straightened  up  again  and,  in  the 
process,  butted  her  chin  with  a  round  face  that  was  still 
earnestly  apologetic. 

Another  bundle  dropped.  People  stopped,  snickered, 
nudged  each  other.  The  woman  suppressed  unwomanly 
words.    Ng  Ch'u  then  decided  to  go  away  from  there. 

"Haya!  haya!"  he  continued  in  his  thoughts  as  he  went 
on  his  way.  "Blessed  be  the  Excellent  Lord  Gautama 
who  made  me  a  coward!  For — is  there  a  keener  foresight, 
a  better  protection,  than  fear?" 

And,  head  erect,  he  walked  along,  toward  his  up-town 
shop  that  faced  Fifth  Avenue,  beneath  an  enormous  sign 
bearing  his  name  in  braggart,  baroque,  gilt  letters,  with  a 
profusion  of  China's  and  Japan's  choicest  wares — dim, 
precious  things — bronzes  mellowed  with  the  patina  of  the 
swinging  centuries  and  embroideries  and  white  and  green 
and  amber  jade;  kakemonos  in  sepia  and  gold  and  pigeon- 
gray,  on  which  the  brush  of  an  artist  long  since  dead  had 
retraced  the  marvels  of  some  capital  of  the  Ashikaga 
dynasty;  ancient  koto  harps  with  plectrums  of  carved 
ivory;  satsuma  bowls  enameled  with  ho-ho  birds;  but 
mostly  the  porcelains  of  China — porcelains  of  all  periods 
— Wen-tchang  statuettes  in  aubergine  and  lambent  yellow 
Kang-he  ginger-jars  painted  with  blue  and  white  hawthorn 
sprays.  Keen-lung  egg-shell  plates  with  backs  of  glow- 
ing ruby,  Yung-ching  peach-blow  whose  ruddy-brown 
shimmered  with  flecks  of  silver  and  green  and  pink  like 
the  first  touch  of  Spring  that  is  coaxing  the  colors  from 
the  shy  sepal  of  the  peach-blossom. 

He  loved  porcelains.  They  represented  to  him  more 
than  money,  more  than  success.    He  had  attached  himself 


248  THE   EVENING   RICE 

to  their  study  as  an  old  Florentine  attached  himself  to 
the  study  of  theology,  caring  nothing  for  religion,  but  with 
a  sort  of  icy-cold,  impersonal,  scientific  passion.  Some- 
how— for  there  was  his  fabulous  Odyssey,  from  a  mud- 
chinked  Ninguta  hut  to  a  gleaming  Fifth  Avenue  shop — 
these  porcelains  were  to  him  the  apex  of  his  life,  the  full, 
richly  flavored  sweetness  of  his  achievement;  and  he  often 
gently  teased  the  Moon-beam,  who  had  become  Madame 
Full  Moon,  because,  in  their  neat  Pell  Street  flat,  she 
preferred  to  eat  her  evening  rice  from  heavy,  white  Ameri- 
can stoneware  with  a  border  of  improbable  forget-me-nots. 

"Good  morning,"  he  smiled  as  he  crossed  the  threshold 
of  his  shop. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  came  the  answering  chorus  from 
the  half  dozen  Chinese  clerks,  while  his  chief  salesman, 
Wen  Pao,  stepped  forward  and  told  him  that,  an  hour 
earlier,  his  good  customer,  Mrs.  Peter  Van  Dissel,  had 
come  in  and  bargained  about  that  pale-blue  Suen-tih  Ming 
bowl  with  the  red  fish  molded  as  handles. 

"Seven  thousand  I  asked,"  said  Wen  Pao.  "Five  thou- 
sand she  offered — then  five  thousand  five  hundred — then 
six  thousand.  She  will  return  to-morrow.  Then  she  and 
I  will  talk  business."  He  smiled.  "The  eye  of  desire 
fattens  the  price,"  he  added. 

"Ah— excellent!"  replied  Ng  Ch'u.  "Trade  indeed  re- 
volves like  a  wheel.  She  can  have  the  bowl  for  six  thou- 
sand five  hundred  dollars.  It  is  a  noble  piece,  worthy  of  a 
coral-button  Mandarin's  collection." 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  sheaf  of  letters  that  awaited 
his  perusal  on  a  teak-wood  table  at  the  back  of  the  store. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  again  addressed  the  clerk. 

"Wen  Pao,"  he  said.  "I  have  reconsidered.  The  bowl 
is  not  for  sale." 

"Oh — ?"  the  other  looked  astonished. 

"No,"  repeated  Ng  Ch'u.  "It  is  not  for  sale.  Put  it 
in  the  small  safe  in  my  private  office.  One  of  these  days, 
when  a  certain  necessary  thing  shall  have  been  pleasantly 
accomplished,  I  shall  use  the  bowl  myself,  to  eat  there- 
from my  evening  rice.  There  is  no  porcelain  in  the  world," 
he    went    on    rather    academically,    "like    ancient   Ming 


ACHMED  ABDULLAH  249 

marked  on  the  reverse  side  with  the  honorific  seal  of  peace, 
longevity,  and  harmonious  prosperity.  It  rings  sweetly — • 
like  a  lute  made  of  glass — under  the  chop-sticks'  delicate 
touch." 

"Ho!"  whispered  Nag  En  HIn,  the  American-born 
son  of  Nag  Hop  Fat,  the  Pell  Street  soothsayer,  who  had 
recently  graduated  from  high  school.  "In  the  estimation 
of  some  people  the  strings  of  their  cotton  drawers  are 
equivalent  to  a  IManchu's  silken  breeches  of  state," 

Ng  Ch'u  had  overheard. 

"They  are  equivalent,  little,  little  paper  tiger  without 
teeth,"  he  purred — "in  durability — " 

He  turned  and  bowed  low  before  a  customer  who  had 
entered  the  shop;  and,  for  the  next  three  hours,  there  was 
In  his  coward's  heart  hardly  a  thought  of  his  old  enemy. 
Only  dimly  the  figure  of  Yang  Shen-hsiu  jutted  into  the 
outer  rim  of  his  consciousness,  like  a  trifling  annoyance, 
which,  presently,  when  the  time  was  ripe,  he  would  cause 
to  pass  out  of  his  consciousness  altogether. 

Nor,  except  Indirectly,  did  he  speak  of  him  to  the 
Moon-beam  that  night,  after  he  had  returned  to  his 
Pell  Street  flat  that,  close  to  the  corner  of  Mott,  faced 
the  gaudy,  crimson-bedaubed  joss  temple — he  rather  liked 
its  proximity.  Not  that  he  believed  much  in  the  ancient 
divinities — the  Tsaou  Kwo-klu  who  sits  on  a  log,  the  Han 
Seang-tse  who  rides  upon  a  fan,  the  Chang-Ho-laou  who 
stands  on  a  frog,  the  Ho  Seen-koo  astride  a  willow-branch, 
or  any  of  the  other  many  Idols,  Buddhist  or  Taolst.  For 
he  was  a  Chinese,  thus  frankly,  sneeringly  Irreligious.  But 
he  had  rare,  thaumaturgical  moments  when  his  bland- 
philosophical  soul  craved  a  few  ounces  of  hygienic  stimu- 
lant in  the  form  of  incense-powder  sending  up  curling, 
aromatic  smoke,  a  dully  booming  gong,  a  priest's  mut- 
tered incantations  before  the  gilt  shrine,  or  a  meaningless 
prayer  or  two  written  on  scarlet  paper  and  then  chewed 
and  swallowed. 

It  was  so  to-night. 

"Moon-beam,"  he  said  to  his  little  fat  wife,  who  smiled 
at  his  entry  as  she  had  smiled  at  him  every  day  these 
forty  years,  ever  since  she  had  married  him,  the  earth- 


250  THE  EVENING  RICE 

bound  coolie,  in  preference  to  a  Manchu  who  had  courted 
her  riotously,  swaggeringly,  extravagantly,  willing  to  leap 
all  barriers  of  caste,  "I  think  that  after  the  evening  rice 
I  shall  go  to  the  temple  and  burn  a  couple  of  Hunshuh 
incense-sticks  before  the  three  gods  of  happiness — the 
Fo,  the  Lo,  and  the  Cho."  He  smiled  amusedly  at  the 
thought.  "Perhaps  the  gods  are  powerless  to  help  me," 
he  added  with  patronizing  tolerance,  "perhaps  they  are 
not.     Still — "  again  he  smiled  and  waved  a  pudgy  hand. 

The  Aloon-beam  continued  setting  the  table  for  dinner. 

"You  are  in  trouble,  Great  One?"  she  asked,  quite  casu- 
ally, over  her  shoulder. 

"Oh — the  jackal  howls  in  the  distance,"  he  answered, 
metaphorically,  easing  his  plump  body  into  a  comfortable 
American  rocking-chair.  "Yes — "  He  lit  a  cigaret.  "The 
jackal  howls.  Loudly  and  arrogantly.  And  yet — will 
my  old  buffalo  die  therefore?" 

She  did  not  reply.     Nor  was  she  worried. 

For  she  knew  Ng  Ch'u.  For  forty  years  she  had  lived 
in  intimate  daily  alliance  with  him,  physically  and  psychi- 
cally. She  knew  that  he  was  a  one-idead  man  who 
always  surrendered  completely  to  the  eventual  aim  and 
object  of  his  slow,  patient,  persistent,  slightly  nagging  de- 
cision; who  never  took  the  second  step  before  he  was 
sure  of  the  first;  who  possessed,  at  the  core  of  his  meek, 
submissive  soul,  a  tremendous,  almost  pagan  capacity  to 
resolve  his  mind  in  his  desire,  and  his  desire  in  the  actual, 
practical  deed.  Yes — she  knew  him.  And  never  since 
that  day  in  the  little  Manchu-Chinese  border  town  when 
she  had  become  his  bride,  according  to  the  sacred  rites, 
with  all  the  traditional  ceremonies  complete  from  kiiei- 
chii  to  laoh-shin-jang,  had  she  doubted  either  his  kindli- 
ness or  his  wisdom;  never,  tho  often  she  walked  abroad, 
in  Pell  Street,  to  swap  the  shifting,  mazed  gossip  of  China- 
town, had  she  envied  the  other  women — whites  and  half- 
castes  and  American-born  Chinese — their  shrill,  scolding, 
flaunting,  naked  freedom;  always  had  she  been  satisfied 
to  regulate  her  life  according  to  the  excellent  Confucius' 
three  rules  of  wifely  behaviour:  not  to  have  her  marital 
relations  known  beyond  the  threshold  of  her  apartment, 
either  for  good  or  for  evil;  to  refrain  from  talkativeness 


ACHiMED  ABDULLAH  251 

and,  outside  of  household  matters  where  she  reigned  su- 
preme, to  take  no  step  and  to  arrive  at  no  conclusion 
on  her  own  initiative. 

Ng  Ch'u  was  in  trouble.  He  was  the  Great  One. 
Presently  he  would  conquer  the  trouble. 

What,  then,  was  there  to  worry  about? 

And  so,  dinner  over,  she  busied  her  fat,  clever  little 
hands  with  strips  of  blue-and-blue  embroidery,  while  he 
prepared  for  himself  the  first  pipe  of  the  evening — "the 
pipe  of  august  beginning,"  as  he  called  it. 

"Ah!"  he  sighed  contentedly,  as  he  kneaded  the  opium 
cube  with  agile  fingers,  stuck  the  needle  into  the  lamp, 
the  flame  of  which,  veiled  by  butterflies  and  moths  of 
green  enamel,  sparkled  like  an  emerald,  dropped  the  red- 
hot  little  pellet  into  a  plain  bamboo  pipe  without  tassels 
or  ornaments,  and,  both  shoulders  well  back,  inhaled  the 
soothing  fumes  at  one  long  whiff — "this  black  bamboo 
pipe  was  white  once — white  as  my  youth — and  the  kindly 
drug  has  colored  it  black  with  a  thousand  and  ten  thou- 
sand smokes.  It  is  the  best  pipe  in  the  world.  No  pipe 
of  precious  wood  or  ivory  or  tortoise-shell  or  jade  or 
carved  silver  can  ever  come  near  that  bamboo." 

He  stopped;  prepared  a  second  pipe.  The  fizzing  of 
the  amber  opium  drops  as  they  evaporated  over  the  lamp 
accentuated  the  silence. 

Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"Moon-beam !" 

"Yes,  Great  One?" 

She  leaned  forward,  across  the  table.  Her  wrinkled, 
honey-colored  old  face,  framed  by  great,  smooth  wings 
of  jet-black  hair,  loomed  up  in  the  ring  of  light  from  the 
swinging  kerosene  lamp. 

"An  ancient  pipe,"  he  repeated,  "blackened  with  a 
thousand  and  ten  thousand  smokes.  Ahee — "  he  slurred; 
then  went  on,  "such  as — " 

Again  he  halted.  Then  he  continued,  just  a  little 
diffidently,  a  little  self-consciously,  as,  Mongol  to  the 
core,  he  considered  the  voicing  of  intimate  sentiments 
between  husband  and  wife  slightly  indelicate — "such  as 
our  love,  Moon-beam — burned  deep  and  strong  and  black 


252  THE  EVENING  RICE 

by  a  thousand  and  ten  thousand  days  of  mutual  knowl- 
edge—" 

She  looked  at  him.  She  rose.  She  put  her  arms  about 
him. 

They  were  rather  ludicrous,  those  two.  Yellow,  fat, 
crinkled,  old,  decidedly  ugly.  Standing  there,  holding  each 
other  close,  in  the  center  of  the  plain  little  room.  With 
the  garish  lights  of  Pell  Street  winking  through  the  well- 
washed  window-curtains,  the  symphony  of  Pell  Street 
skirling  in  with  a  belching,  tawdry  chorus;  a  street  organ 
trailing  a  brassy,  syncopated  jazz;  the  hectic  splutter  and 
hiss  of  a  popcorn-man's  cart;  some  thick,  passionate  words 
flung  up  from  a  shadow-blotched  postern,  then  dropping 
into  the  gutter:  "Gee,  kid,  I'm  sure  nuts  about  you!" 
"G'wan,  yer  big  slob,  tell  it  t'the  marines — " 

Yes.     Ludicrous,  that  scene. 

And  ludicrous,  perhaps,  the  Moon-beam's  words,  in 
guttural,  staccato  Chinese, 

"Great  One!  Truly,  truly,  all  the  real  world  is  enclosed 
for  me  in  your  heart!" 

He  looked  at  her  from  beneath  heavy,  opium-reddened 
eyelids. 

"Moon-beam,"  he  said,  "once  you  could  have  been  a 
Manchu's  bride." 

She  gave  a  quaint,  giggling,  girlish,  high-pitched  little 
laugh. 

"Once,"  she  replied,  "the  ass  went  seeking  for  horns — 
and  lost  its  ears."  She  patted  his  cheeks.  "I  am  a  coolie's 
fat  old  woman.  Great  One!  An  old  coolie's  fat,  useless  old 
woman — " 

"Little  Moon-beam,"  he  whispered,  "little,  little  Moon- 
beam— " 

It  was  the  voice  of  forty  years  ago,  stammering,  pas- 
sionate, tender.    He  held  her  very  close. 

Then,  unhurriedly,  he  released  her.  Unhurriedly,  he 
left  the  room,  walked  down  the  stairs  and  over  to  the 
joss  temple. 

There — his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  his  mind  smiling  at  his 
soul — he   went   through   a   certain   intricate   ritual,   with 


ACHMED  ABDULLAH  253 

shreds   of  scarlet   paper,   and   incense   sticks,   and  pieces 
of  peach-wood  especially  dreaded  by  ghosts. 

Yu  Ch'ang,  the  priest,  watched  him,  and — since  even 
holy  men  must  eat  and  drink — suggested  that,  perhaps, 
the  other  might  like  sacerdotal  intercession  with  the 
Shang  Ti,  the  Supreme  Ruler  of  Heaven. 

Ng  Ch'u  laughed. 

"I  have  always  avoided  middlemen,"  he  said.  "That's 
how  I  made  my  fortune.  Shall  I  then  offend  the  deity 
by  talking  through  a  priest's  greedy  lips?" 

And  he  left  the  joss  temple,  and  walked  out  into  the 
street. 

It  was  late.  Rain,  that  had  started  in  fluttering,  flick- 
ering rags,  had  driven  both  dwellers  and  sightseers  to  shel- 
ter. Black,  silent,  the  night  looked  down.  Across  the  road, 
from  his  flat,  the  lights  sprang  out  warm  and  snug  and 
friendly.  But  he  remembered  that  there  was  some  urgent 
business  matter  he  had  to  talk  over  with  Ching  Shan,  the 
retired  merchant  who  was  his  silent  partner,  and  that  at 
this  hour  he  would  be  most  likely  to  find  him  sipping  a 
cup  of  hot  wine  in  the  back  room  of  Nag  Hong  Fah's 
restaurant,  which,  for  yellow  men  exclusively,  was  known 
euphoniously  as  the  Honorable  Pavilion  of  Tranquil 
Longevity. 

So  he  turned  toward  Mott  Street.  But  he  kept  to  the 
middle  of  the  street,  and  he  stepped  slowly,  warily,  heels 
well  down,  arms  carefully  balanced,  head  jerked  slightly 
forward,  his  whole  body  poised  for  instant  shift  or  flight, 
all  his  senses  primed  to  give  quick  warning  of  anything  un- 
usual or  minatory. 

For  again,  now  that  he  was  alone,  fear  of  Yang  Shen- 
hsiu  had  rushed  upon  him  full-armed;  and  here — with  the 
sodden,  pitchy  blanket  of  night  painting  the  shadows  with 
deeper  shadows,  and  the  rain-whipped  streets  deserted  by 
everybody — was  the  very  place  where  murder  might  hap- 
pen, had  happened  in  the  past,  in  Tong  war  and  private 
feud — the  corner  saloons  with  their  lurking  side  entrances, 
where  a  man  might  slip  in  and  out  like  a  rabbit  through 
the  tunnels  of  its  warren;  the  inky,  prurient,  slimy  halls 
and  areaways;  the  sudden,  mysterious  alleys  cutting  edge- 
wise into  mazes  of  buildings;  the  steep  cellars  that  yawned 


254  THE  EVENING  RICE 

like  saturnine,  toothless  maws;  the  squat,  moldy,  turgid 
tenements,  with  the  reckless  invitations  of  their  fire 
escapes. 

Ng  Ch'u  shivered.  Should  he  turn  back,  make  a  run 
for  his  home.^ 

And — what  then.'' 

To-morrow  was  another  day.  To-morrow  the  sun 
would  shine  golden  and  clear.  True.  But  to-morrow 
the  Manchu  would  still  be  the  Nlanchu;  and  Ng  Ch'u 
was  sure  of  two  things:  that  Yang  Shen-hsiu  would  plot 
his  speedy  death,  and  that,  even  supposing  he  broke  the 
unwritten  law  of  Pell  Street,  it  would  be  quite  useless  to 
go  to  the  police  of  the  red-haired  devils  and  ask  them  for 
protection. 

For  could  he,  the  merchant,  accuse  the  other,  the  great 
Chinese  dignitary  sent  to  America  on  a  diplomatic  mis- 
sion.^   And  of  what.''    What  could  he  say.'' 

Could  he  make  these  foreigners  believe  in  this  tale  of 
China,  of  forty  years  ago?  Could  he  tell  them  that  he 
and  the  other  had  been  in  love  with  the  same  girl,  that 
she  had  preferred  the  coolie  to  the  aristocrat,  and  that 
the  latter  had  sworn  revenge?  Could  he  tell  them  that 
those  had  been  the  days  directly  after  China's  war  of 
eighteen  hundred  and  sixty  against  France  and  England, 
when  the  imperial  court  had  been  compelled  to  leave 
Pekin  and  flee  to  Jehol,  when  the  Summer  Palace  had 
been  taken  and  sacked  by  the  barbarians,  when  a  shame- 
ful treaty  had  been  forced  on  the  Middle  Kingdom,  and 
when  the  Kuang  T'ai  Hou,  the  Empress,  the  Old  Buddha, 
had  issued  an  edict  that,  until  a  "more  propitious  time" 
the  lives  of  foreigners  should  be  sacred  in  the  land  of  Han? 
Could  he  tell  them  how  he  had  found  out  that  the  iVIanchu, 
in  a  fit  of  rage,  had  murdered,  and  quietly  buried,  a  British 
missionary;  how  thus,  by  threatening  exposure  to  the 
Pekin  authorities,  he  had  held  the  whip-hand;  how,  dis- 
cretion being  the  better  part  of  valor,  he  and  the  JVIoon- 
beam  had  emigrated  to  America;  and  how  now,  to-day, 
forty  years  later,  he  had  met  the  Manchu  here,  in  New 
York — still  the  same  JManchu — hawkish,  steely,  ruth- 
less— ? 

Ng  Ch'u  shook  his  head. 


ACHMED  ABDULLAH  255 

He  could  imagine  what  Bill  Devoy,  detective  of  Second 
Branch  and  Pell  Street  specialist,  would  say, 

"Cut  it  out!  Ye've  been  hittin'  the  old  pipe  too  hard. 
What?  Manchu?  Dowager  Empress?  Moon-beam? 
Missionary?  Revenge?  Say — ye've  blown  in  too  many 
dimes  on  them — now — seven-reelers !  Keep  away  from 
the  movies,  Chinkie — see?" 

Ng  Ch'u  shivered.  He  jumped  sidewise  rapidly  as  he 
heard  a  rustling  noise.  Then  he  smiled  apologetically — 
it  had  just  been  a  dim  stir  of  torn  bits  of  paper  whirled 
about  by  a  vagabond  wind — and  turned,  at  a  sudden 
right  angle,  toward  Nag  Hong  Fah's  Great  Chop  Suey 
Restaurant  \Vhere  it  slashed  the  purple,  trailing  night  with 
a  square  of  yellow  light. 

A  minute  later,  his  heart  beating  like  a  trip-hammer, 
he  was  up  the  stairs.  Two  minutes  later,  outwardly  com- 
posed, he  bowed,  his  hands  clasped  over  his  chest,  to  the 
company  of  merchants  who  were  gathered  in  the  Hon- 
orable Pavilion  of  Tranquil  Longevity,  some  quietly  smok- 
ing or  sipping  tea,  others  gossiping,  still  others  playing 
at  hsiang  ch'i  chess  and  ta  ma. 

The  soft,  gliding  hum  of  voices,  the  sizzling  of  the  opium 
lamps,  the  sucking  of  boiling-hot  tea  drunk  by  compressed 
lips,  the  clicks  of  the  copper  and  ivory  counters — it  was 
all  tremendously  peaceful  and  reassuring;  and  Ng  Ch'u 
sighed  contentedly  as  he  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  side 
of  Ching  Shan,  his  silent  partner,  and  began  talking  to 
him  in  an  undertone  about  a  shipment  of  Sheba  pottery 
which  could  be  picked  up  at  a  bargain  in  San  Francisco. 

Presently,  business  over,  he  asked  a  question. 

"Brother  very  old  and  very  wise,"  he  said,  "what  are 
the  protections  of  the  day  and  the  night  against  an  evil 
man?" 

Ching  Shan  was  known  throughout  Pell  Street  for  his 
stout  wisdom — a  reputation  which  he  upheld  by  quoting 
esoterically  and  didactically  from  some  hoary  tome  of 
learning,  whenever  asked  a  question,  and  then  reinforcing 
his  opinion  by  a  yet  lengthier  quotation  from  another 
book. 

"Ng  Ch'u,"  he  replied,  "it  has  been  reported  in  the  Shu 


2s6  THE  EVENING  RICE 

King  that  the  sage  Wu  once  spoke  as  follows:  'I  have 
heard  that  the  good  man,  doing  good,  finds  the  day  in- 
sufficient, and  the  night,  and  that  the  evil  man,  doing 
evil,  also  finds  the  day  insufficient,  and  the  night.'  "  He 
paused,  looked  around  him,  made  sure  that  not  only  Ng 
Ch'u  but  also  the  rest  of  the  company  were  listening  to 
him  attentively,  and  continued:  "Yet,  as  to  the  evil  man, 
and  the  good,  has  it  not  furthermore  been  said  that  the 
correct  doctrine  of  the  good  man  is  to  be  true  to  the  prin- 
ciples of  his  nature  and  the  benevolent  exercise  of  these 
principles  when  dealing  with  others?" 

"Even  when  dealing  with  evil  men?"  asked  Ng  Ch'u. 

"Decidedly,  little  brother." 

"Ah — "  smiled  Ng  Ch'u,  "and  the  principle  of  my  na- 
ture has  always  been  to  see  that  I  have  pork  with  my  eve- 
ning rice — to  bargain  close  and  tight — to  know  the  worth 
of  money — " 

"Money,"  said  Nag  Hong  Fah,  the  restaurant  proprie- 
tor, "which  is  the  greatest  truth  in  the  world — " 

"Money,"  chimed  in  Yung  Long,  the  wealthy  wholesale 
grocer,  "which  is  mastery  and  power  and  sway  and  shining 
achievement — " 

"Money,"  said  Ching  Shan  rather  severely,  since  he  had 
retired  from  active  business  affairs  and  was  not  worried 
by  financial  troubles,  "which  is  good  only  when  used  by 
a  purified  desire  and  a  righteous  aim — " 

"What  aim  more  righteous,"  rejoined  Ng  Ch'u,  "than 
peace  and  happiness  and  the  evening  rice — " 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  a  hush  fell  over  the  Honor- 
able Pavilion  of  Tranquil  Longevity.  Tea  cups  were  held 
tremblingly  in  mid-air.  Pipes  dropped.  Voices  were 
stilled. 

For  there,  framed  in  the  doorway,  stood  three  figures, 
lean,  tall,  threatening;  faces  masked  by  black  necker- 
chiefs; pistols  held  steadily  in  yellow  hands. 

"Oh— Buddha!"  screamed  Nag  Hong  Fah.  "The 
hatchetmen — the  hatchetmen — " 

"Silence,  obese  grandfather  of  a  skillet!"  said  the  tallest 
of  the  three.  "Silence — or — "  His  voice  was  terse  and 
metallic;  his  pistol  described  a  significant  half-circle  and 


ACHMED  ABDULLAH  257 

drew  a  bead  on  the  restaurant  proprietor's  stout  chest.  He 
took  a  step  nearer  into  the  room,  while  his  two  colleagues 
kept  the  company  covered.  "My  friends,"  he  said,  "I 
have  not  come  here  to  harm  anybody — except — " 

His  eyes  searched  the  smoke-laden  room,  and,  as  if 
drawn  by  a  magnet,  Ng  Ch'u  rose  and  waddled  up  to  him. 

"Except  to  kill  me?"  he  suggested  meekly. 

"Rightly  guessed,  older  brother,"  smiled  the  other.  "I 
regret — but  what  is  life — eh: — and  what  is  death .^  A 
slashing  of  throats !  A  cutting  of  necks !  A  jolly  ripping 
of  jugular  veins!"  He  laughed  behind  his  mask  and  drew 
Ng  Ch'u  toward  him  with  a  strong,  clawlike  hand. 

The  latter  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"Honorable  killer,"  he  asked,  "there  is,  I  take  it,  no 
personal  rancor  against  me  in  your  heart?" 

"Not  a  breath — not  an  atom — not  a  sliver !  It  is  a 
mere  matter  of  business!" 

"You  have  been  sent  by  somebody  else  to  kill  me — 
perhaps  by — ?" 

"Let  us  name  no  names.  I  have  indeed  been  sent  by — 
somebody." 

Ng  Ch'u  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Ching  Shan  who 
sat  there,  very  quiet,  very  disinterested. 

"Ching  Shan,"  he  said,  "did  you  not  say  that  the  correct 
doctrine  of  the  good  man  is  to  be  true  to  his  principles 
and  the  benevolent  exercise  of  these  principles?" 

"Indeed !"  wonderingly. 

"Ah — "  gently  breathed  Ng  Ch'u,  and  again  he  ad- 
dressed the  hatchetman.  "Honorable  killer,"  he  said,  "the 
nameless  party — who  sent  you  here — how  much  did  he 
promise  you  for  causing  my  spirit  to  join  the  spirits  of  my 
ancestors?" 

"But—" 

"Tell  me.     How  much?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars!" 

Ng  Ch'u  smiled. 

"Five  hundred  dollars — eh? — for  killing  me?"  he  re- 
peated. 

"Yes,  yes !"  exclaimed  the  astonished  hatchetman. 

"  Five  hundred  dollars — eh? — for  killing  me?"  he  re- 
broke  into  gurgling  laughter.    "Correct  doctrine  to  be  true 


258  THE  EVENING  RICE 

to  one's  own  principles !  Principles  of  barter  and  trade — 
my  principles — the  coolie's  principles — Ahee! — ahoo! — 
ahai!  Here,  hatchetman!"  His  voice  was  now  quite 
steady.  Steady  was  the  hand  with  which  he  drew  a  thick 
roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket.  "Here  are  five  hundred 
dollars — and  yet  another  hundred!  Go!  Go  and  kill 
him — him  who  sent  you !" 

And,  late  that  night,  back  in  his  neat  little  flat,  Ng  Ch'u 
turned  casually  to  his  wife. 

"Moon-beam,"  he  said,  "the  little  trouble  has  been 
satisfactorily  settled."  He  paused,  smiled.  "To-morrow," 
he  added,  "I  shall  eat  my  evening  rice  from  a  pale-blue 
Suen-tih  Ming  bowl  with  red  fish  molded  as  handles." 

"Yes,  Great  One,"  came  the  Moon-beam's  calm,  in- 
curious reply. 


Short  Stories 


THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

BY 

GORDON  YOUNG 


THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND ' 
By  GORDON  YOUNG 

FOR  reasons  that  might  be  called  confidential,  since 
they  were  known  only  to  Billy  Rand  himself  and  to 
the  police,  he  took  the  tip  of  a  friend  wise  in  geography 
and  made  for  a  speck  on  the  map  called  Ponape — a  bit 
of  an  island  that  sticks  out  inconspicuously  in  the  South 
Seas. 

He  landed  on  a  beach  where  there  were  some  natives 
that  he  mistook  for  "niggers"  and  a  lot  of  Germans. 

Said  Billy  Rand  to  a  German  trader: 

"I'm  travelin'  for  my  health  and  lookin'  for  a  quiet 
spot.  I  need  rest.  This  here  Langar  is  too  thrivin'  a 
metropolis.    It  reminds  me  of  New  York." 

He  looked  out  of  the  doorway  to  where  a  half  dozen 
little  trading  schooners  were  anchored,  and  at  the  cor- 
rugated iron  warehouse;  but  most  particularly  he  looked 
at  the  two  wireless  masts.  Those  were  what  reminded 
him  of  New  York. 

"Ja,"  said  the  trader,  and  tipped  the  empty  beer  bottle 
significantly. 

Billy  took  the  hint.  More  beer  came.  Then  the  trader 
warmed  up  slightly  and  talked. 

Billy  didn't  know  exactly  what  was  being  said.  No 
fortune  teller  bad  ever  warned  him  that  he  ought  to  study 
German. 

The  trader  pointed  here  and  there,  and  Billy  twisted 
his  head  about  to  see.  Then  he  began  to  realize  that  the 
German  was  talking  of  directions.  Which  way  did  Billy 
want  to  travel.^ 

Billy  took  a  chance  and  poked  his  finger  In  the  same 
direction  that  his  nose  happened  to  be. 

■  Copyright  by  Short  Stories 


262  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

The  trader  agreed  that  it  was  a  desirable  choice  and 
put  out  his  hand,  palm  up.  The  sign  language  had  never 
seemed  so  eloquent  to  Billy  before. 

That  was  how  Billy  came  to  be  landed  on  the  beach 
some  two  hundred  miles  from  Langar.  The  bay  was 
pretty  and  the  trader  had  given  him  to  understand  that 
a  missionary  lived  there. 

But  alone  on  the  beach  Billy  couldn't  see  anything  but 
niggers.  They  swarmed  about  him,  "grinned,  looked  him 
over  curiously,  fingered  his  clothes,  felt  of  him,  and  chat- 
tered. He  wished  heartily  that  he  was  back  in  New  York 
explaining  to  the  judge  just  how  it  happened.  The  trader 
was  already  standing  out  to  sea. 

The  natives  half  carried,  half  dragged  the  squatty  little 
man  with  the  dapper  manner,  alias  Billy  Rand,  up  the 
beach  and  through  the  bushes  until  they  came  to  a  cleared 
space  where  there  were  grass  houses  and  women  cooking. 

"Just  in  time  for  dinner!"  he  said  to  himself,  and  nearly 
fainted. 

Then  a  man  came  to  the  door  of  one  of  the  grass 
houses.  He  was  a  comparatively  young  man,  fine  looking 
— Billy  thought — and  not  at  all  like  the  beachcombers, 
missionaries  and  Germans  with  which  Billy  had  already 
become  acquainted.  And  Billy  could  not  imagine  that 
any  one  other  than  those  people — beachcombers,  mission- 
aries and  Germans — would  hide  themselves  away  in  such 
outlandish  places  unless  for  "confidential"  reasons. 

"Who  are  you?"  the  man  asked.  It  seemed  to  Billy 
that  there  was  something  pryingly  suspicious  in  the  ques- 
tion. 

Rapidly  he  hastened  to  assure  this  stranger: 

"It's  all  right.  I  came  along  for  quiet  and  rest  too.  I 
know  just  how  you  feel  when  a  stranger  comes  along  your 
trail.     Now  I've—" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the  other,  looking 
puzzled.  Billy  noticed  that  he  had  brown  eyes  that  looked 
almost  sad. 

"I'm  in  the  same  fix  as  you,"  Billy  explained  vaguely. 

"A  missionary?"  the  man  asked. 

"Me  a  what !" 

And   Billy   followed   it   up   with    a    few   remarks   that 


GORDON  YOUNG  263 

showed  he  was  far  from  having  been  trained  as  a  mis- 
sionary. 

The  man  looked  relieved,  though  he  did  say  quietly: 

"You  see,  I'm  a  missionary.  From  what  you  said  I 
judged  that  you,  too — well,  I  want  neither  a  rival  nor  an 
assistant — but,"  he  added  quickly,  "anybody  else  is  wel- 
come." 

Billy  cast  a  speculative  eye  over  the  crowd  of  natives 
ringed  about  him. 

"Say,"  he  confessed  frankly,  "I  was  awfully  glad  to  see 
you.     These  fellows  had  me  scared  stiff." 

The  missionary  laughed.  "They  can't  imagine  any  one 
being  afraid  of  them." 

"Ain't  they  got  no  lookin'  glasses?"  Billy  demanded. 

The  missionary  laughed  again  and  invited  him  into  his 
house. 

Billy  at  first  had  a  nightmarish  sensation  as  he  stepped 
in;  lizards,  birds  and  things,  some  dried,  some  stuffed, 
some  pickled  in  bottles,  some  stuck  on  cards — bugs  and 
butterflies  and  flying  squirrels  and  even  some  bright-scaled 
fish. 

"Have  a  little  drink?"  asked  the  missionary.  "And  here 
is  a  pipe  and  some  tobacco — trade  tobacco.  Wretched 
stuff".  Just  make  yourself  at  home.  And  tell  me,  what's 
going  on  in  the  world?     I've  been  here  four  years." 

Billy  reflected  that  this  man  might  be  a  missionary,  but 
he  was  a  good  judge  of  whiskey,  though  he  took  only  a 
little  for  himself  and  after  filling  Billy's  glass  put  the 
bottle  away. 

Later  another  drink  for  Billy  alone  was  forthcoming; 
and  he,  already  wanting  to  stay  on  and  on  with  the  mis- 
sionary and  not  wanting  him  to  think  that  he,  Billy,  was 
a  murderer  or  something,  up  and  told  just  what  he  would 
have  told  the  judge  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  keep  just 
about  two  jumps  ahead  of  the  detectives  that  were  on  his 
trail. 

Billy  naively  explained  that  he  wasn't  going  to  confess 
to  anybody  that  he  had  carried  the  money  from  a  certain 
firm  of  paying  contractors  to  a  certain  man  that  could — 
and  did — control  the  awarding  of  paving  contracts. 

"An'  was  it  police  or  a  woman  with  you:"  Billy  inquired 


264  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

pointedly,  feeling  that  an  exchange  of  confidence  was  due. 

The  missionary  gave  him  a  quick  glance,  then  smiled 
and  said  that  he  was  really  a  naturalist,  but  was  officially 
a  missionary  because  the  Germans,  who  owned  the  Caro- 
linas,  were  more  agreeable  to  missionaries  than  to  scien- 
tists— of  other  countries. 

"A  woman,"  Billy  said  to  himself,  noticing  how  hand- 
some and  young  the  missionary  was.  His  name  was 
Roscoe  Tomlin. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  they  got  well  acquainted.  Billy 
helped,  as  the  natives  did,  to  catch  bugs  and  things  and 
pickle  them.  He  picked  up  a  few  words  of  the  dialect 
and  soon  had  the  pickaninnies  taking  a  great  fancy  to  him. 

Then,  just  as  Billy  was  getting  settled  to  the  new  life 
and  beginning  to  feel  secure,  a  little  steam  yacht  nosed 
cautiously  into  the  mouth  of  the  bay. 

The  natives  made  a  dash  for  the  beach,  tumbled  into 
canoes  and  went  splashing  out  to  give  greetings  and  get 
presents. 

Tomlin  was  off  in  the  bush  chasing  bugs  and  things. 

Billy,  not  being  anxious  to  receive  visitors  himself,  went 
near  the  beach  and  reclined  behind  a  convenient  rock. 

Presently  he  saw  a  boat  dropped  from  the  davits. 
People  got  into  It.  One  of  them  was  a  woman.  They 
landed  on  the  beach  and,  in  about  two  minutes,  Billy  saun- 
tered out  to  make  sure  that  she  was  as  pretty  as  she 
looked.  The  men  who  had  rowed  ashore  stayed  in  the 
boat,  but  she  got  out  with  a  little  man  who  had  a  Van- 
dyke beard,  a  cap  and  doublebreasted  serge  coat. 

"No  detective,"  said  Billy  reassuringly  to  himself, 
"would  attempt  that  disguise." 

"Hello,"  said  the  little  fellow  seeing  that  Billy  was  a 
white  man. 

Billy  didn't  like  his  looks.  Just  why,  he  could  not  have 
told.  But  he  didn't  like  'em.  He  wasn't  frightened  though — 
besides,  she  was  getting  prettier  and  prettier  at  every  step. 

Her  hair  was  red  and  her  eyes  were  purple  with  fire  In 
them;  her  lips  were  red  as  a  flame-tree's  flower,  or  maybe 
more  red.  She  was  slender  without  being  slim  and  moved 
as  easily  as  a  pandanus  leaf  swinging  In  a  little  breeze. 
Billy  was  very  susceptible  to  beauty.  He  would  have 
thrown  himself  face  down  right  there  on  the  sand  for  her 


GORDON  YOUNG  265 

to  walk  on  at  the  least  suggestion  that  such  an  attitude 
would  be  pleasing  to  her.  She  was  young  without  being 
girlish — nor  was  there  anything  old  womanish  about  her. 
No.  Billy,  who  was  a  bit  hazy  on  historical  events,  was 
sure  that  she  looked  exactly  like  those  women  who  bowl 
kings  off  their  thrones,  get  men  assassinated — or  what- 
ever else  they  want.  Not  that  she  looked  wicked.  No. 
But — well,  Billy  was  a  long  way  from  home  and  she  wore 
her  clothes  as  they  are  worn  on  the  Boardwalk;  she 
carried  herself  as  women  do  on  Fifth  Avenue.  And  then 
she  was  pretty. 

"Is  there  a  man  here  by  the  name  of  Roscoe  Tomlin?" 
the  little  man  asked,  turning  hard  blue  eyes  on  Billy  as 
though  he  were  a  bum  or  Vv^astrel. 

"Who's  he?"  said  Billy,  looking  innocent. 
-    "Who  are  you?"  the  woman  asked.      She  spoke  pleas- 
antly, encouragingly,  as  though  Billy  interested  her.     He 
and  the  ladies  always  did  get  along,  anyway. 

"I'm  Billy  Rand,"  he  said.  "The  missionary's  assistant." 

"And  who  is  the  missionary?"  She  asked  it  quickly, 
eagerly. 

"Mr.  Roscoe  Tomlin,"  said  Billy,  bowing  low. 

"You — you — you,"  the  little  man  stuttered  angrily, 
"why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  when  I  asked  you?" 

"Because,"  Bill  answered,  looking  right  at  him,  "I 
didn't  know  the  lady  was  interested !" 

"I'll  fix  you !"  the  man  shouted,  and  came  toward  Billy 
as  though  about  to  do  something  he  shouldn't. 

He  was  about  Billy's  size — and  Billy  never  ran  in  front 
of  ladles,  not  pretty  ones  at  any  rate. 

But  hostilities  were  suppressed  peremptorily.  She 
snapped  out  in  a  surprised  tone: 

"Captain  Farewell!" 

The  Captain  stopped.     Anybody  would  have  stopped. 

"That's  all  right,"  Billy  assured  her.  "Us  missionaries 
is  used  to  such  fellers.  Bad  lot  o'  men  come  to  these 
islands — crooks  and  things !" 

The  Captain  appeared  to  be  on  the  verge  of  blowing 
up;  but  she — she  did  not  seem  to  notice.  She  smiled  as 
she  asked: 

"Is  Mr. — I  mean  is  the  Rev.  Mr.  Tomlin  as — as  pug- 
nacious as  you?" 


266  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 


"Him?"  asked  Billy.  "Why,  he  trained  me!  He  eats 
'em  alive." 

"Cannibal,  eh?"  said  the  Captain.  "I  told  you  how 
white  men  degenerated  among  the  natives,"  he  remarked 
to  her.  Then  of  Billy  he  asked,  "Is  this  Rev.  Mr.  Tomlin 
married  or — " 

He  stopped  right  there.  Billy  didn't  quite  know  what 
the  Captain  was  driving  at,  but  sensed  enough  to  make 
him  w^ant  to  fight. 

"Has  Mr.  Tomlin  a  wife?"  she  asked. 
"Has  he  a  native  wife?"  the  Captain  emphasized. 
"Lady,"  said  Billy,  getting  hot  inside,  and  when  he  got 
hot  inside  he  was  likely  to  be  blunt  in  his  remarks,  "sup- 
posin'  some  stranger  come  to  a  friend  of  yours  and  asked 
are  you  married  to  a  nigger!" 

She  flushed  and  caught  her  breath,  but  someway  it 
seemed  that  she  was  very  much  pleased,  though  she  said: 
"You  are  right.  I  apologize.  But  will  you  please  take  us 
to  Mr.  Tomlin.  I  am  a  friend — a  former  friend  of  his." 
So  Billy  led  them  up  to  the  house,  and  the  natives 
came  along  chattering  and  grinning  and  wanting  to  touch 
the  woman's  clothes.  Billy  warned  them  off  repeatedly 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  native  words  and  New  York  slang. 
The  Captain,  speaking  like  a  man  does  who  has  some- 
thing on  his  mind,  asked: 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  here,  Rev.  Mr.  Rand?" 
"Me?     Oh,  let's  see.     Two — no  not  quite  two  years. 
Be  two  years  soon.     A  feller  sort  o'  loses  track  of  time 
in  a  place  like  this,  you  know." 

"So  I  would  judge!"  said  the  Captain  with  a  strange 
intonation  that  caused  Billy  some  vague  uneasiness. 

It  stood  this  way  with  Billy:  The  District  Attorney 
back  in  New  York  was  after  the  Chief.  Certain  contrac- 
tors lost  money  on  a  job  and  that  made  them  peevish, 
so  they  swore  that  they  had  handed  out  a  bribe  to  get 
the  contract  awarded  to  them.  The  Chief  stood  pat  and 
said:  "Prove  it!"  Billy  had  carried  the  money.  If  Billy 
confessed,  the  District  Attorney  had  the  proof.  But  Billy 
jumped.  If  he  should  be  caught  and  still  refuse  to  come 
through  with  a  confession,  it  was  highly  probable  that 
the  District  Attorney  would  pry  loose  some  little  episodes 


GORDON  YOUNG  267 

in  Billy's  past  and  hand  him  something.  He  would  not 
snitch  on  the  Chief  and  as  he  did  not  like  the  accommo- 
dations at  Sing  Sing,  Billy  had  been  ducking  and  dodging 
all  over  the  Pacific,  and  the  detectives — though  they  had 
never  laid  eyes  on  him — had  been  stubborn  and  alert  as 
ferrets  in  a  rabbit  warren.  It  wasn't  that  Billy  had  a 
criminal  record — far  from  it.  But  he  had  been  in  practical 
politics  as  an  aid  to  the  Chief.  This  was  a  stubborn 
political  fight  involving  some  pretty  big  pickings,  and  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  a  crucial  witness.  So  Billy  grew 
very  thoughtful  at  the  way  Captain  Farwell  spoke. 

He  led  the  guests  into  the  house  and  had  them  sit 
down.  They  looked  at  the  bugs  and  pickled  lizards  and 
stuffed  fish,  but  the  woman  did  not  shiver. 

"This   has   always  been  Roscoe's  habit,"   she  said. 

Billy  sent  some  of  the  native  youngsters  for  green  cocoa- 
nuts  and  poured  a  drink  of  cool  milk  for  the  guests.  The 
woman  was  eager  and  busy  with  questions,  wanting  to 
know  everything  knowable  about  Tomlin;  and  the  Cap- 
tain watched  Billy  steadily  and  continued  remarks  that 
made  him  nervous. 

Billy  reflected  that  the  Captain  was  not  a  big  man  in 
any  way — something  like  himself  in  build,  only  a  trifle 
thinner — and,  well,  a  fight  wouldn't  help  much  to  keep 
him  out  of  New  York,  buc  it  would  be  gratifying. 

While  they  were  talking,  Tomlin  came. 

The  natives  had  told  him  about  the  witch-boat — any 
boat,  in  their  minds,  was  driven  by  the  devil  if  it  did  not 
have  sails — and  about  the  white  woman  and  man  being  in 
the  house. 

He  was  naturally  interested.  Tourists  were  often  nosing 
around  in  yachts,  but  he  had  never  seen  any  before.  He 
came  over  the  doorway — the  doorways  were  built  high  to 
keep  the  pigs  out — and  said  with  general  friendliness: 

"I  hope  Billy  is  making  you  comfortable." 

"Yes,  Roscoe.  Quite  comfortable,"  she  said,  turning 
her  face  toward  him. 

"You ! — Lorraine — here !" 

"Why,  of  course.  How  are  you  Roscoe?  Didn't  you 
get  my  letter?  This  is  Captain  Farwell.  Mother  is 
aboard  the  Petrel,  but  she  isn't  well." 


268  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

Tomlin  looked  at  the  Captain  and  nodded,  still  in  a 
daze. 

From  the  way  he  looked  back  at  Lorraine,  Billy  did 
not  know  whether  Tomlin  had  a  peeve  and  wasn't  trying 
to  show  it,  or  didn't  have  one  and  wanted  to  pretend. 
Lorraine  seemed  wiser.  She  smiled  at  him  in  a  way  that, 
Billy  thought,  ought  to  have  made  a  statue  come  from 
its  pedestal  and  be  human. 

Billy  recognized  that  four  was  a  multitude  and  said: 

"Captain,  you  just  come  with  me,  and  I'll  show  you 
a  cocoanut  grove  or  a  sunset  or  something." 

Lorraine  frankly  rewarded  Billy  with  a  smile  and  a 
glance. 

The  Captain  hemmed  and  hawed,  but  she  said  as  po- 
litely as  though  she  meant  it:  "Certainly  Captain,  we'll 
excuse  you.  I  remember  you  said  you  wanted  to  see  a 
real  native  village.  Mr.  Rand,  I'm  sure,  will  be  an  ex- 
cellent guide." 

"Yes,"  said  Tomlin,  feeling  no  doubt  that  he  ought  to 
say  something,  "Billy  has  been  here  only  a  few  weeks,  but 
he  knows  the  natives  almost  as  well  as  I." 

Billy  at  once  felt  himself  crumbling  from  the  inside. 
He  had  counted  much  on  an  alibi  that  would  give  him  a 
two  year  residence  on  the  island. 

Lorraine  seemed  to  realize  that  something  was  wrong. 
She  caught  Billy's  eye,  and  in  about  the  tenth  part  of  a 
second,  then  and  there  with  nothing  more  than  a  sparkle 
of  light  from  under  her  long  lashes,  made  an  offensive 
and  defensive  alliance  with  him. 

When  they  were  outside  the  Captain  said: 

"How  one  must  lose  track  of  time  here!  Remarkable, 
isn't  it!     I  feel  as  though  I'd  been  here  several  days." 

"The  cocoanuts  are  down  this  way,"  said  Billy,  starting 
off. 

"By  the  way,  Rand,  I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  way 
of  getting  out  of  this  place,  is  there?"  the  Captain  asked. 

"How  do  you  mean,  get  out?" 

It  was  a  question  uppermost  in  Billy's  mind. 

"I  mean  any  of  these  islands — off  like  this.  Just  before 
we  left  Langar  I  heard  of  a  couple  of  detectives  from  New 
York.     They  have  tracked  their  man  half  way  around 


GORDON  YOUNG  269 

the  world,  and  discovered  that  about  two  months  ago — 
maybe  a  little  less — he  left  Langar  with  a  German  trader. 
The  trader  is  out  now  on  a  trip  and  they're  waiting  for 
him  to  come  back  and  tell  them  where  he  dropped  this 
man. 

"Neither  of  these  detectives,  so  I  heard — the  steward 
talked  with  them — has  ever  seen  the  man.  But  they  have 
a  good  description  of  him,  a  very  good  description.  Short 
inclined  to  be  chubby — though  possibly  he's  thinned  out 
some  since  he  became  a  fugitive — blue  eyes,  dark  brown 
hair.  Somewhat  resourceful,  they  say.  Passed  himself 
as  a  waiter  and  got  passage  on  a  government  transport  to 
Guam.  Pretended  to  be  a  discharged  marine  at  Guam 
and  shipped  with  a  pearl  pirate  for  Yap.  At  Yap  he 
became  a  planter  and  doubled  back  to  Langar.  They 
don't  know  what  he  told  the  trader,  but  they  know  this 
trader  never  makes  anything  but  little  islands  out  of  touch 
with  the  world.  They  figure  that  they  have  their  prize  this 
time.  Haven't  seen  anybody  of  his  description,  have 
you?" 

Billy  came  very  nearly  to  saying  yes;  but  what  would 
be  the  use?  In  normal  spirits  he  would  have  told  the 
Captain  that  the  description  fitted  himself — the  Captain — 
pretty  closely.    But  Billy  was  in  no  mood  for  humor. 

"I  am  telling  you  all  this  so  that  in  case  you  ever  run 
across  the  fellow  you  can  send  word  to  Langar.  Quite  a 
reward  for  him,  I  understand.  The  detectives  are  waiting 
there.  They  heard  the  Petrel  was  cruising  about,  and 
asked  the  steward  to  notify  everybody  on  board.  They 
are  very  impatient.  I  am  sure  if  they  got  wind  of  where 
the  fellow  was  they  would  hire  a  schooner  and  go  for  him." 

"Can't  arrest  him  without  the  consent  of  German  au- 
thorities, can  they?"     Billy  inquired. 

"Not  properly,  of  course.  But  they  can  smuggle  him 
out.  Once  they  get  their  hands  on  him  they  will  not  stop 
to  ask  questions  until  they  get  to  New  York.  This  fellow 
is  so  resourceful  and  tricky  that  they  won't  give  him  half 
a  chance  to  make  trouble  for  them." 

Billy  did  not  answer.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  a  kind 
of  companionable  sympathy  for  the  lizards  that  he  and 
Tomlin  caught  and  smothered  in  chloroform  before  "pick- 


270  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

lin'  'em."  No  matter  where  he  went  he  felt  that  he 
never  appreciably  increased  the  distance  between  himself 
and  240  Centre  Street,  New  York — Police  Headquarters. 

But  Billy  wasn't  the  only  one  who  was  having  troubles. 
Lorraine  and  Tomlin  came  walking  toward  the  beach, 
and  a  blind  man  could  tell  that  neither  of  them  was 
happy.  The  Captain,  not  being  blind,  appeared  perky 
and  pleased. 

"Aren't  you  coming  to  see  mother?"  she  asked  wist- 
fully as  she  got  into  the  boat.  Perhaps  she  was  too  proud 
to  ask  him  to  come  on  her  own  account. 

"To-morrow,  Lorraine.  To-morrow,"  he  said  in  an 
empty  voice  that  showed  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  was 
saying. 

"To-morrow!"  he  said,  not  without  a  touch  of  anger. 
Then  to  Billy,  "Mr.  Rand,  will  you  come  and  have  dinner 
with  me — now!" 

"I  sure  am  delighted!"  said  Billy,  and  without  looking 
toward  the  reproachful  eyes  of  Tomlin  or  the  glaring 
eyes  of  the  Captain,  he  climbed  into  the  boat,  and  gave 
all  of  his  attention  to  Lorraine's. 

Billy  thought  the  Petrel  was  about  the  finest  thing  im- 
aginable, all  white  and  shiny,  and  he  thought  the  dinner 
was  too  much  for  mere  words  to  describe — with  just  him- 
self and  Lorraine  at  the  table.  The  mother  was  not  well, 
but  she  looked  much  worse  when  Lorraine  said  that 
Tomlin  wouldn't  come — until  to-morrow. 

At  dinner  Billy  got  the  whole  story.  Of  course  Lor- 
raine didn't  intend  to  tell  it,  but  she  did — at  least  enough 
of  it  for  him  to  understand  that  some  years  before  she 
had  loved  Tomlin  and  he  had  loved  her,  and  that  they 
were  promised,  each  to  the  other.  But  of  course  there 
had  loved  Tomlin  and  he  had  loved  her,  and  that  they 
was  rich  and  he  was  poor  and  had  "pride" — also  a  passion 
for  bugs  and  things.  There  isn't  much  money  to  be 
made  out  of  that  sort  of  study,  and  she  objected  to  being 
expected  to  live  on  what  he  made  from  it — when  she  was 
rich  as  an  Indian  princess.  Her  father  offered  to  help 
Tomlin  along  in  business,  but  Tomlin  insisted  that  his 
career  was  in  studying  bugs,  and  that  made  the  father 
peevish  and  he  said  that  Tomlin  didn't  need  help.    Nat- 


GORDON  YOUNG  271 

urally  Tomlin  then  grew  more  peevish  and  said  that  the 
father  and  his  money  could  go  to  the — well,  wherever  it 
is  that  rich  men  go  on  Judgment  Day  when  they  fail  to 
get  through  the  eye  of  the  needle.  And,  of  course,  that 
made  Lorraine  peevish,  and  she  said  that  Tomlin  didn't 
love  her.  But  he  said  that  he  did  and  always  would, 
but  that  he  had  "pride."  So  the  engagement  was  shat- 
tered, and  Lorraine  married  a  man  rich  as  she  was.  But 
Tomlin  had  her  heart  and  she  couldn't  forget  him.  Be- 
sides, she  felt  that  maybe  after  all  she  was  to  blame. 
When  her  husband  died  from  overwork  of  the  stomach, 
she  inquired  and  found  that  Tomlin  had  turned  missionary 
to  the  Caroline  Islands.  She  talked  with  her  mother,  and 
the  mother,  having  known  all  along  how  Lorraine  felt, 
said  to  do  it,  so  Lorraine  sent  Tomlin  a  letter  (the  mail 
is  delivered  to  stray  missionaries  once  every  three  or  four 
years),  took  the  Petrel,  engaged  Captain  Farwell,  and 
set  out  to  locate  Tomlin,  being  aided  thereby  through  the 
Board  by  Foreign  Missions  which  had  him  down  on  its 
payroll  for  $35  every  three  months.  But  as  converting 
heathens  isn't  a  very  paying  business,  there  were  times 
when  he  did  not  get  that. 

It  was  a  long  trip.  And  Captain  Farwell,  being  a 
single  man  and  feeling  himself  as  attractive  as  any  mis- 
sionary, continually  told  her  of  how  white  men  degen- 
erated in  the  tropics  and — well,  the  inference  was  that  no 
woman  could  ask  for  a  better  husband  than  a  sailorman 
of  just  his  height  and  age.  He  might  as  well  have  sug- 
gested himself  as  the  consort  for  the  Empress  Dowager 
of  China.  But  the  Captain  had  ideas  and  believed  himself 
a  very  resourceful  gentleman. 

"And  Roscoe,"  she  said  bitterly,  "still  has  that  awful 
'pride'  of  his!" 

"He  loves  you,  don't  he?"  Billy  demanded. 

She  looked  a  little  startled,  but  admitted  that  Tomlin 
had  said  he  did  and  had  never  loved  any  one  else;  and 
her  eyes  seemed  to  ask  Billy  what  he  thought  of  a  man 
who  would  love  a  girl  and  not  show  it. 

Billy  was  a  man  of  some  attainment  in  the  use  of  his 
wits.  He  had  lived  by  them  for  many  years.  He  assured 
Lorraine   that   all   Tomlin   needed   was    a   little   friendly 


272  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

advice  and  to  "leave  it  to  me!"  She  was  a  bit  alarmed 
at  Billy's  proprietary  manner  in  taking  over  her  love  af- 
fair, but  they  were  a  long  way  from  home  and  the  conven- 
tions of  New  York. 

And  when  Billy  started  to  leave  she  said:  "And  by  the 
way,  Mr.  Rand,  if  for  any  reason  you  care  to  leave  on  the 
Petrel,  whether  or  not  Roscoe  comes,  you  will  be  welcome. 
And  we  are  not  going  back  by  way  of  Langar!" 

"Them  detectives  '11  be  awfully  disappointed  if  you 
don't,"  Billy  said  frankly,  wondering  just  how  much 
Tomlin  had  told  her,  and  what  the  steward  had  told 
her — or  Captain  Farwell? 

Billy  got  into  the  boat  to  be  taken  ashore,  but  the  sailors 
said  that  they  were  waiting  for  the  Captain,  too.  Presently 
Captain  Farwell  came  and  as  the  boat  shoved  off"  in  the 
darkness,  there  was  a  crackling  and  snapping  on  board 
the  Petrel.  Billy  had  noticed  the  wireless.  He  was  not 
much  of  a  sailor  and  besides  it  had  seemed  natural  for 
ships  to  have  tall  poles  and  wires  and  ropes. 

"Mr.  Rand,"  said  the  Captain,  when  he  came,  "I'm 
sending  to  Langar  a  description  of  the  man  we  met  on  the 
island  this  afternoon." 

Of  course,  he  said  it  that  way  so  the  sailors  wouldn't 
understand. 

"And  I  believe,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  can  persuade  the 
owner  of  the  Petrel  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  go  back  by 
way  of  Langar." 

So  the  Captain  had  been  listening. 

Billy  settled  down  on  a  thwart  and  tried  to  think. 

"It  will  take  the  detectives  about  two  days  to  get  here. 
Much  may  happen  in  two  days." 

Billy  hoped  so. 

The  Captain  left  Billy  to  ruminate  until  the  boat  hit 
the  beach.  Then  he  got  out  and  said  that  he  would  walk 
a  bit  with   Billy. 

"You  know,"  the  Captain  began,  "if  Tomlin  should  not 
leave  on  the  Petrel  I  don't  believe  that  we  would  go  back 
by  way  of  Langar." 

Billy  said  nothing.     He  didn't  quite  understand. 

"And  in  that  case,  if  you  were  on  board  the  detectives 
would  never  meet  you." 

"Go  on,"  said  Billy.    "I'm  interested." 


GORDON  YOUNG  273 

*'But  if  Tomlin  remained — and  was  able  to  talk,  under- 
stand— he  would  tell  that  you  had  gone  on  the  Petrel  and 
you  wouldn't  be  much  better  off.  Besides,  the  Petrel 
would  be  into  trouble  for  having  tried  to  do  you  a  favor. 
They  would  get  hold  of  the  Petrel  some  way." 

"That's  right,"  said  Billy.     "Now  tell  it  all." 

"I'll  be  frank  with  you.  You  are  a  bad  crook,  so  I 
don't  suppose  one  crime  more  or  less  means  much  to  you, 
does  it:" 

"Naw,  I'm  bad!"  said  Billy  grinning  to  himself  in  the 
darkness. 

"Listen  then.  You  kill  Tomlin  and  I'll  see  that  you  get 
away.  Let  him  live  this  night  out  and  I'll  put  you  in 
irons  and  carry  you  to  Langar  myself." 

"Ooo-oo,"  said  Billy.    "I'm  in  a  pickle." 

"You  are,"  said  the  Captain,  speaking  firm. 

"With  Tomlin  out  of  the  way,  you  think  this  girl  can 
be  consoled  by  being  Mrs.  Farwell.    Am  I  some  guesser?" 

"You  discuss  your  own  business.    Not  mine." 

"Sure.    You've  got  what  they  call  the  upper  hand." 

"I  have."  The  Captain  was  a  man  of  decision;  very 
firm,  too. 

"How's  the  best  way  to  go  about  it  to  keep  Tomlin 
quiet  r" 

"Knife  him." 

"All  thought  out!"  said  Billy,  admiringly. 

"Yes.  Here's  a  knife.  Don't  leave  it  lying  around.  If 
you  do  I  shall  swear  you  stole  it  from  me." 

"I'll  bring  it  back  to  you." 

"You'll  do  it  then.^"" 

"I'll  come  to  the  Petrel  in  the  mornin'  and  say  a  nigger 
done  it." 

"That's  right.     Don't  fail  me.     It'll  go  hard  with  you." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Billy,  as  the  Captain  turned  away 
and  walked  back  toward  the  beach. 

Billy,  grinning  thoughtfully,  went  up  to  the  house. 
Through  the  doorway  he  could  see  Tomlin  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table,  his  hands  in  his  hair,  sitting  amid  his 
troubles.  The  lantern  hanging  from  a  beam  made  him 
look  like  a  great  grotesque  image  carved  from  teak. 

Billy  climbed  over  the  doorway. 

"Billy — "  Tomlin  said  anxiously,  ready  to  ask  questions. 


274  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

Billy  did  not  answer,  but  started  gathering  up  his  few- 
belongings,  and  making  a  great  show  of  that. 

"Billy,  what  are  you  doing?" 

No  answer,  but  much  rummaging. 

"Billy,  have  you  gone  crazv?" 

"Nope." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"I'm  movin'." 

"Moving?     What's  the  matter?" 

"I  got  pride,"  said  Billy. 

"Pride?    What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

Then  Billy  told  him.  That  is  Billy  explained  how  he 
had  landed  on  the  beach  and  been  living  on  Tomlin's 
charity,  and  he  simply  couldn't  stand  it  any  more.  His 
pride  wouldn't  let  him  stand  it.  He  was  going  back  in 
the  bush  and  hunt  berries  and  bugs  of  his  own. 

"But  Billy — are  you  crazy?  I've  done  nothing  for  you. 
I've  liked  you — I  want  you  to  stay." 

"Nope.    I  got  pride!" 

"You  idiot!"  Tomlin  cried,  jumping  up,  his  strained 
nerves  at  the  breaking  point. 

"Who's  an  idiot?" 

"You  are.  All  this  means  nothing  to  me.  I'm  glad  to 
share  it  with  you.  Anything — everything.  I  like  you — 
and  you — you — " 

" — then  why  don't  you  marry  her?"  Billy  cut  in. 

Tomlin's  face  went  blank  as  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"What  does  all  that  mean  to  her?  She  just  wants  to 
share  it  with  you.  And  you  got  pride.  Aw,  you  just  want 
her  to  coax  and  beg." 

"Look  here — what  are  you  talking  about?"  Tomlin 
demanded. 

"See  this  knife,"  said  Billy,  flourishing  the  long,  cold 
blade.     "Well — "  and  Billy  told  him  everything. 

A  few  hours  later  Tomlin  was  talking  like  a  happy 
child  and  trying  to  shave  while  Billy  sat  at  the  table 
painfully  trying  to  write  a  note. 

Tomlin  knocked  over  a  shelf  of  pickled  lizards. 

"Look  out!"  Billy  exclaimed. 

"To  hell  with  'em!"  said  Tomlin. 

"A  missionary  to — " 


GORDON  YOUNG  275 

"I've  thought  out  my  letter  of  resignation,"  said  Tomlin. 

Billy  finished  his  note  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  saying: 
"I'll  rout  out  some  niggers  and  you  come  about  fifteen 
minutes  after  me.     Meantime  I  got  to  kill  a  chicken." 

He  slipped  out  and  feeling  under  the  low  eaves  grabbed 
a  sleepy  fowl.  Captain  Farwell's  knife  was  soon  a  very 
grewsome  object. 

Just  before  dawn  Billy  paddled  out  to  the  Petrel.  He 
inquired  for  Lorraine's  cabin  and  banging  on  the  door 
slipped  her  his  note  with  a  word  or  two  of  explanation, 
then  returned  to  the  deck. 

"Mr.  Tomlin  was  murdered  by  natives  last  night,"  he 
said  to  a  sailor  on  watch.  "The  lady  wants  me  to  tell 
the  Captain." 

Billy  was  shown  to  the  Captain's  cabin  and  the  sailor 
went  to  spread  the  news  forward. 

"Who's  there?"  said  the  Captain. 

"Me,"  said  Billy.   "The  niggers  killed  Tomlin  last  night  I" 

"Come  in,"  said  the  Captain,  excited.     Billy  came  in. 

"Shut  the  door." 

It  was  shut. 

"Lock  it." 

Billy  fumbled  with  the  lock. 

The  Captain  was  in  bed,  sitting  up,  nervous. 

"He  is  dead?" 

"See  this?"  said  Billy,  pulling  out  the  knife. 

"Why  didn't  you  wipe  it  off?" 

"All  right,"  said  Billy  as  he  grabbed  the  end  of  the  sheet 
and  wiped  the  blade. 

"You  fool — the  stains — here — " 

"Where  else  should  they  be?  Us  murderers  has  to  stick 
together." 

"Are  you  trying  to  implicate  me?  But  I've  got  you — 
I'll  swear — you're  going  to  murder  me !" 

With  that  the  Captain  sprang  out  of  bed  and  began 
yelling  "Murder !    Help !" 

The  door  opened  and  Lorraine  stood  there,  just  as 
Billy  had  requested.  Her  hair  was  tumbled  down  and 
she  wore  a  kimono  of  white  silk  with  blue  birds.  Her 
face  did  not  look  pleasant,  and  her  eyes  were  cold  and 
straight,  but  she  said  quite  calmly: 


276  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

"Captain  Farwell,  I  have  been  listening  with  the  door 
ajar  ever  since  you  told  Mr.  Rand  to  lock  it!" 

With  that  she  turned  and  walked  off. 

The  Captain  dropped  his  jaw,  and  then  himself.  He 
flopped  like  a  sack  of  flour  into  a  chair  and  sat  there 
staring  at  Billy. 

"You  see,  Cap,"  said  Billy,  friendly-like,  "I'm  wanted 
back  in  New  York  as  a  witness  in  a  bribery  case.  Not 
for  murder.  And  seein'  as  you  don't  want  it,  I  think  I'll 
keep  this  knife  as  a  little  souvenir." 

The  Captain  said  nothing,  so  Billy  kept  the  knife  and 
went  out,  shutting  the  door. 

Down  the  passageway  he  came  upon  Tomlin  with  his 
arms  around  Lorraine,  and  she  was  weeping  happily. 

Billy  overheard  " — as  soon  as  we  can  find  a  minister." 

"But  you  are  one!"  she  insisted.  "And  Mr.  Rand — 
isn't  he—" 

Tomlin  exploded  into  laughter. 

But  Billy  intervened. 

"  'Scuse  me  for  interferin'  with  the  reunion,  but  If  you 
are  lookin'  for  a  weddin'  ceremony,  allow  me  to  offer  my 
services." 

Tomlin  looked  surprised  for  it  was  obvious  that  Billy 
was  in  earnest. 

Billy  hastened'  to  explain  that  when  he  had  come  over 
to  Guam  on  the  transport  the  captain  had  married  an 
officer  and  a  nurse,  so  It  appeared  that  captains  could 
marry  people — though  a  missionary's  assistant  couldn't! 

"That's  right!';  said  Tomlin.  _ 

Lorraine  was  inclined  to  object. 

"Then  we  must  wait,  my  dear." 

"We  have  waited  so  long!"  she  said,  thereby  agreeing 
to  the  Captain's  performing  the  ceremony. 

The  Captain  was  still  in  pajamas  and  on  his  chair  and 
showed  all  the  visible  symptoms  of  nervous  prostration. 

"Captain,"  said  Billy,  cheerfully,  "we'd  like  to  have  a 
knot  spliced  this  mornin'  and  seein'  as  how  you  are  a 
sailor — " 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  perform  the  wedding 
service?"  Tomlin  asked,  sternly.  After  all  It  was  his,  not 
Billy's  wedding. 


GORDON  YOUNG  277 

The  Captain  choked  and  was  badly  scared,  but  at  last 
managed  to  say  that  he  was  "agreeable,"  although  he 
didn't  appear  to  be. 

Billy  grabbed  a  pair  of  sailors  for  witnesses,  the  Cap- 
tain fished  out  a  Bible — and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Roscoe  Tomlin 
marched  out  blushing  and  happy  to  break  the  news  to 
mother;  whereupon  the  old  lady  climbed  right  out  of  bed, 
cured. 

That  afternoon  the  Captain  had  a  little  talk  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Tomlin  and  said  that  he  would  like  permission  to 
go  ashore  and  stay  there,  as  relations  on  board  had  be- 
come somewhat  strained.  He  knew  that  a  boat  would  be 
along  in  two  or  three  days  (the  detectives  had  answered 
that  they  were  coming).  It  was  v»ry  irregular — a  captain 
leaving  his  ship  that  way — but  Tomlin  said  that  all 
things  considered,  he  thought  it  would  be  well. 

So  the  Captain  said  good-bye  to  the  steward  and  whis- 
pered something  that  caused  the  steward  to  look  hard  at 
Billy;  then  he,  the  Captain,  left,  bag  and  baggage. 

That  day  was  spent  in  getting  Tomlin's  bugs  and  lizards 
on  board  and  in  saying  good-bye  to  the  natives. 

The  next  morning  with  the  First  Officer  on  the  bridge, 
the  Petrel  steamed  out  and  left  the  Captain  sitting  on  the 
beach — very  glad  to  have  got  away  without  charges  being 
laid  up  against  him. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tomlin  cornered  Billy  and  asked  what 
on  earth  they  could  do  for  him. 

"Yesum,"  said  Billy.  "Just  drop  that  steward  over- 
board." 

Mrs.  Tomlin  promised  that  at  the  first  port  they 
reached  the  steward  would  be  fired  and  given  passagi2 
money  home. 

As  the  day  passed  Billy  walked  the  deck  and  exchanged 
jokes  with  the  First  Officer,  who  was  the  new  Captain — 
and  glad  of  it,  because  he  had  never  liked  Farwell  any- 
how. Then  a  little  trading  schooner  came  over  the  line, 
bow  on. 

Billy  knew  right  away  by  intuition  that  she  carried 
the  detectives. 

When  within  hailing  distance  the  schooner  heaved  to 
and  the  Petrel  slowed  down. 


278  THE  TAKING  OF  BILLY  RAND 

A  fellow  from  the  bow  called  out  to  thank  the  Captain 
for  having  tipped  him  off  as  to  the  crook  wanted  in  New 
York,  and  asked  if  he  was  still  In  the  nigger  village. 

The  new  Captain  didn't  quite  understand;  but  Billy 
grabbed  the  megaphone  and  yelled:  "Yes — raised  a  beard 
— stole  papers  and  clothes  from  the  ship — may  try  to  pass 
himself  off  as  a  Captain  or  something — clever  crook,  you 
know — let  'im  explain  nothin'  or  you  won't  get  him  to 
New  York.    Good  luck !" 

A  shout  of  thanks  came  over  the  water  as  the  Petrel 
started  churning  ahead. 

Billy  looked  after  the  little  schooner,  and  taking  a  deep 
breath,  said  gratefully  to  himself,  "The  Lord  helps  them 
as  helps  'emselves !  Can  you  see  the  D.  A.  when  he  gets 
hold  of  old  Cap.  Farwell  expectin'  to  see  little  Billy!" 


The  Woman's  Hoyne  Companion 

ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN 


BY 

HARRIET  WELLES 


ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN ' 
By  HARRIET  WELLES 

DURING  the  first  few  days  after  the  Armistice  was 
signed  I  seemed,  for  some  strange  reason,  to  wish  to 
sit  idly  in  my  room  in  the  London  hotel  where  I  was  tem- 
porarily domiciled. 

Ever  since  I  had  left  my  home  in  America,  the  days  in 
war-time  England  had  been  so  full,  so  tensely  crowded, 
that  each  seemed  crammed  with  events — events,  occurring 
somehow  in  an  eternal  twilight  that  will  always  recur  to 
me  with  the  memory  of  the  unbearable,  shadowy  premoni- 
tion of  an  approaching  night;  the  sight  of  troops  marching 
across  the  city  under  faint  stars,  dim  against  the  afterglow; 
laden  lorries  lumbering,  convoy  wagons  creaking,  through 
the  dusk;  constantly  returning  ambulances,  with  their  end- 
less gleanings,  seeming  to  leave  a  perceptible  shadow  long 
after  they  had  passed.  Even  the  pot  of  parrot  tulip  bulbs, 
purchased  to  brighten  my  window  sill,  finally  blossomed, 
and  contributed  to  my  illusion  of  twilight  by  producing 
wan,  colorless  flowers. 

And  then  the  Armistice  was  signed,  and  I  awakened 
from  my  doze  to  find  it  bright  morning  with  dazzling 
sunshine!  Small  wonder  that  most  of  us  drew  a  long 
breath  and,  blinking  uncertainly,  hesitated.  .  .  . 

But,  after  a  few  days,  old  ties  reasserted  themselves.  I 
had  been  too  busy,  too  harassed,  before,  to  look  up  old 
friends;  now,  I  sat  down  and  wrote  the  one  for  whom, 
during  a  year  in  the  Orient  where  her  husband  and  mine 
each  held  an  official  position,  I  had  grown  to  have  a  very 
deep  admiration  and  afi'ection.  "It  will  be  pleasant  to  see 
a  real  English  family  in  their  own  home,  during  the  first 
days  of  peace,"  I  planned,  remembering  my  friend,  her 
pleasant  husband,  and  their  three  sons  and  one  pretty 
daughter. 

*  Copyright  The  Woman's  Home  Companion. 


282  ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN 

Before  her  answering  letter,  urging  me  to  make  them  a 
long  visit,  came,  my  plans  were  suddenly  changed,  my 
sailing  date  hastened.  I  was  able  to  arrange  for  only  one 
afternoon  with  her  in  the  cathedral  town  where  she  lived, 
near  London. 

The  only  books  on  sale  at  the  railroad  station  book 
stall  were  war  literature,  for  which,  now  that  the  night- 
mare was  so  recently  over,  I  had  a  deep  repugnance,  so  I 
dug  out  from  a  pile  of  miscellaneous  books  a  cheap  paper- 
covered  volume  of  Ruskin's  essays,  and  settled  myself  to 
improve  my  mind,  while  the  toy  train  moved  leisurely 
on  its  punctual  way. 

My  friend  waved  to  me  from  a  wicker  pony  cart  as  I 
alighted  from  the  train  at  her  station.  She  bridged  the 
years  which  stretched  between  our  last  meeting,  half  a 
world  away,  and  the  present,  by  the  friendliness  of  her 
greeting,  the  sincere  warmth  of  her  welcome.  "There 
wasn't  anyone  to  hold  this  fractious  beast,  or  I  wouldn't 
be  sitting  here,"  she  apologized  as  she  kissed  me. 

"He  looks  peaceful  enough,"  I  commented,  taking  the 
seat  beside  my  hostess. 

"She  isn't!  Since  our  horses  were  commandeered,  and 
we  were  allowed  only  eight  gallons  of  petrol  a  month  for 
the  motor,  we've  had  to  depend  on  this  pony.  She's  put 
on  a  lot  of  side  since  she  realized  that  she  was  a  war- 
worker,"  volunteered  my  friend  as  the  pony  shied  heraldi- 
cally  at  a  baby  carriage.  "She's  seen  that  perambulator — 
or  others  like  it — every  day  for  the  last  fifteen  years,  and 
never  noticed  until  now." 

The  pony,  suddenly  bored  by  her  own  antics,  slowed 
down  to  a  jog  trot;  we  rounded  a  grove  of  trees,  and  came 
upon  a  typical  English  village  dominated  by  a  gray  cathe- 
dral. "How  quaint — how  peaceful!"  I  exclaimed  with 
unfeigned  enthusiasm. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  dear  old  place,"  she  agreed,  and  hesitated: 
"I  suppose  that,  in  a  way,  it's  peaceful,  too,  if  you  can 
overlook  the  sorrow  or  suffering  in  every  house.  Our 
older  men  will  have  to  stay  in  harness  and  bear  the  bur- 
dens much  longer  than  heretofore;  the  middle  generation 
is  wiped  out.  We  must  wait  for  the  lads  who  are  children 
now.    There  isn't  one  young  man  left,  in  this  village,  who 


HARRIET  WELLES  283 

isn't  lame  or  blind,"  she  said,  and  indicated  with  her  whip 
a  cottage  doorway.  On  the  step  a  blond  boy  leaned  idly 
against  a  post.  Something  in  his  lack  of  cognizance  of  us 
made  me  look  more  closely.  "Blind,  deaf  from  'shell- 
shock,'  and  his  right  arm  gone,"  my  friend  explained. 

I  mentally  searched  for  a  pleasanter  subject.  "You 
haven't  told  me  of  your  family — your  husband,  Daphne, 
the  boys.''  I  was  so  excited  at  seeing  you  that  I  waited  to 
ask,"  I  said. 

We  were  passing  the  green  cloister  of  the  cathedral. 
Above  us  towered  the  gray  pile  with  its  buttresses,  gar- 
goyles and  columns;  from  an  unseen  belfry  a  deep-toned 
bell  sounded  the  hour,  a  silvery  chime  supplemented  the 
old  canticle:  "He  .  .  .  watching  over  Israel  .  .  .  slum- 
bers not  .  .  .  nor  sleeps." 

My  friend  listened  intently.  "Sometimes,  when  bad 
news  arrived,  or  the  severely  wounded  came  home,  I've 
wondered.  I've  questioned,"  she  said.  I  knew  that  she 
referred  to  the  message  of  the  bells. 

"You  needn't  question  any  more.  Now,  you  know!" 
I  comforted. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "now  I  know — it  had  to  be.  All 
English  mothers  are  sure  of  that." 

There  was  in  her  tone  quiet  and  sincere  earnestness 
that  any  comment  seemed  superfluous  and  Impertinent, 
so  In  silence  we  drove  on  down  the  long  road  and  passed 
through  a  stone  gateway  and  up  a  curving  avenue  to  the 
most  perfect  Georgian  house  that  I  have  ever  seen.  She 
smiled  at  my  enthusiastic  admiration. 

"I  used  to  get  so  homesick  for  it,  in  China,"  she  volun- 
teered; "my  great-great-grandfather  built  it  on  the  ruins 
of  an  older  place  of  ours  which  had  burned." 

An  old  stableman  hobbled  up  to  take  the  reins.  We 
went  In  past  an  elderly  parlor  maid  who  had  opened  the 
door,  and  I  instantly  succumbed  to  the  perfection  of  the 
sunshiny  hall,  with  Its  floor  of  black  and  white  marble, 
and  the  square,  paneled  rooms  opening  off  on  either  side 
of  it. 

"We've  had  tea  In  the  garden  every  afternoon,  it  has 
been  such  a  beautiful^,  open  autumn.    But  perhaps  you'd 


284  ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN 

prefer  having  it  in  the  house?"  suggested  my  friend. 

"I'd  much  rather  have  it  in  the  garden,"  I  agreed,  re- 
luctantly detaching  my  attention  from  the  Adam  mantel- 
piece and  turning  to  examine  the  carved  corners  of  the 
old  wall  panels.  The  rooms  were  veritable  museums  of 
rare  and  beautiful  furnishings;  they  showed  a  finished 
perfection  of  detail,  from  the  wax  candles  in  the  crystal 
chandeliers  to  the  faded  needle-point  upholstering  on  the 
Chippendale  chair  seats. 

"Just  think  of  the  generations  of  discriminating  people 
whose  taste  is  represented  in  your  home!  Didn't  any 
of  them  ever  make  mistakes  and  buy  black  walnut  hor- 
rors?". I  cried,  and  added,  "What  a  magnificent  heritage 
to  hand  down,  unspoiled,  to  your  children!" 

She  did  not  answer.  I  turned  and  found  her  storing 
down  at  the  sturdy  carving  on  a  superb  oak  bench.  "My 
great-great-great-great-grandfather's  favorite  seat,"  she 
explained,  rousing  herself.  "He  sailed  with  Drake  .  .  . 
and  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  unalterable  greatness 
of  England,  and  England's  future.  .  .  as  I  am  a  believer 
in  it!"  She  paused.  "But  sometimes  I  wonder  .  .  .  what 
will  become  of  our  household  gods.  .  .  ." 

"Become  of  them?"'  I  cried.     She  interrupted  me. 

"Must  you  really  go  back  to  London  this  afternoon?" 
she  asked,  and  at  my  reluctant  affirmative  continued,  "I've 
ordered  tea  early  for  that  reason.  Shall  we  go  out  into 
the  garden?  .  .  .  Ah,  Daphne!" 

I  turned  to  greet  the  daughter  of  the  house  as  she  came 
down  the  stairs,  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of  pleasure. 
She  had  been  a  pretty  girl,  but  now  she  was  even  lovelier, 
and  while  the  contrast  between  her  soft  dress  and  lace 
hat  and  her  mother's  severely  plain  attire  was  striking,  I 
felt  thankful  that,  in  war-weary  England,  Beauty  was 
encouraged. 

"Daphne — and  grown  up!"  I  greeted  her. 

She  smiled.    "Were  you  at  my  wedding?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  no!  I  didn't  even  know  that  you  had  been 
married,"  I  commented.  Her  mother  interposed:  "We 
hadn't  time  to  look  up  addresses  or  have  invitations  en- 
graved.   George's  leave  was  so  short." 

Daphne  was  not  listening;  now,  she  interrupted,  "Tea 


HARRIET  WELLES  285 

— so  soon?  In  the  garden?"  And  without  waiting  for 
an  answer  glanced  at  the  shabby  volume  still  clasped  in 
my  hand.  "Book?  Any  pictures?"  she  asked.  I  smiled. 
"You  haven't  grown  up  at  all!"  I  told  her,  and  added, 
"Ruskin's  essays — without  illustrations!" 

The  parlor  maid  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "Tea  is 
served,"  she  announced.  We  followed  her  to  the  garden 
entrance.  "Everything  here  is  so  quiet!"  I  said  as  wfe 
went  through  the  gate.  "Oh!"  I  cried,  "this  is  a  perfect 
as  the  house!"  and  gazed  entranced  at  the  long  vistas  of 
box-lined  paths,  the  grouped  battalions  of  clipped  yews, 
and  the  massed  planting  of  cosmos,  chrysanthemums,  and 
flaming  dahlias. 

My  friend  smiled.  "You  should  see  it  in  August  when 
the  white  lilies  make  a  mist  of  blossoms  along  the  walls, 
and  forget-me-nots  are  reflected  in  the  pool,"  she  said. 

"And  the  poppies!"  cried  Daphne. 

Almost  sharply  her  mother  denied:  "Not  poppies. 
Daphne.  Never  again  poppies !  I've  given  orders  for 
the  poppies  to  be  weeded  out  as  fast  as  they  come  up." 

She  gave  careful  attention  to  the  making  of  the  tea. 
"Not  such  good  tea  as  we  had  in  the  Orient,"  she  apolo- 
gized. 

We  spoke  of  our  winer  in  Hong-Kong  and  the  visiting 
dignitaries.  "Wonder  what  has  become  of  the  Austrian 
duchess  who  wore  the  silver  dress  and  huge  diamonds  at 
the  dinner  at  Government  House?"  or,  "Did  you  ever  hear 
again  of  Mrs.  Carson,  who  ran  away  with  that  young 
German?  I  was  told  that  they  are  living  in  Tasmania," 
or,  "How  did  the  Llewellyn  marriage  turn  out?  You  re- 
member we  didn't  think  it  would  be  a  success?"  And 
recalled  the  terrible  typhoon  which  had  come  up  so  sud- 
denly that  hundreds  of  unprepared,  helpless  sampans  and 
junks  were  swept  into  the  port  of  lost  ships.  "I'll  never 
forget  the  abject  terror  of  some  of  those  Chinese  sailors 
who,  as  the  junks  swept  by,  were  chanting  their  appeal 
to  the  sea-god."  I  said. 

She  agreed  soberly,  remembering  the  tragic  day.  "I 
like  to  think  of  that  incongruous  Scotch  regiment  with 
the  bagpipes,  marching  gayly  along  the  walks  bordered 


286  ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN 

with  tall  blossoming  poinsettias  that  flamed  against  the 
brown  banks,"  she  supplemented.  We  relived  a  summer 
in  the  mountains  of  Japan,  and  laughed  over  the  mem- 
ories of  various  mishaps  when  we  had  tried,  unavailingly, 
to  "hustle  the  East."  "I've  never  been  able  to  look  a 
hard-boiled  egg  in  the  eye  since  we  patronized  those 
Chuzenji  tea  houses,"  I  said;  "if  all  the  embryo  chickens 
I  devoured  were  suddenly  to  appear — " 

"Heaven  forbid!"  agreed  my  friend.  We  laughed  to- 
gether. 

Daphne  had  wandered  off.  I  could  see  her  white  figure, 
misty  against  the  rosy  mauve  of  the  cosmos;  I  wondered 
if  she  had  lost  interested  memory  of  the  Japanese  holidays 
she  had  so  much  enjoyed.  She  had  not  spoken  of  them 
or  recalled  our  former  friendship  and  now,  oblivious  of  me, 
I  could  hear  her  happily  humming  an  old  song.  I  felt 
chilled,  grieved,  and  mystified;  Daphne  had  been  very 
much  attached  to  me  during  the  old  days;  I  had  looked 
eagerly  forward  to  seeing  her  again,  and  now  she  treated 
me  as  though  I  were  the  most  casual  acquaintance,  I 
thought;  then  took  myself  sharply  in  hand.  "You're 
stupid!"  I  accused  mentally.  Aloud,  I  said,  "How  happy 
Daphne  seems !  I  suppose  that  you  expect  her  husband 
back  any  time,  now.'"' 

My  friend  set  the  teapot  down;  for  a  second,  as  she  did 
not  answer  but  sat  gazing  across  the  sunshiny  garden.  I 
thought  that  she  had  not  heard.  Then  she  turned  and 
faced  me.    "No — "  she  commenced. 

Daphne  had  come  up  behind  me.  "Tea?"  she  asked,  and 
took  the  cup  that  her  mother  had  prepared  for  me,  then, 
sitting  down,  she  asked,  "Were  you  at  my  wedding?" 

"No,"  I  answered;  "tell  me  about  it." 

"Flowers !  We  had  flowers,  and  there  were  flags.  I 
had  a  white  dress — "  she  began,  then  stopped  blankly. 

Her  mother  took  up  the  account.  "We  made  it  as  pretty 
as  we  could,"  she  said.  "Of  course,  last  year,  no  one  had 
much  heart  for  celebrating  except  at  a  wedding!  Daphne's 
two  cousins  were  the  bridesmaids;  they  carried  big  loose 
bunches  of  moss-roses  from  this  garden — som^ehow  garden 
flowers  seemed  more  suitable  for  weddings  during  those 


HARRIET  WELLES  287 

days  when  home,  and  all  that  homes  stand  for,  were  the 
real  issue  of  the  war." 

She  paused,  then  went  on:  "My  husband  came  down 
from  his  training  camp  and  gave  Daphne  away.  I'd  been 
working  two  days  a  week,  for  over  three  years,  among  the 
widows  and  mothers  of  sailors,  at  Deptford.  Poor  be- 
reaved souls !  Daphne's  wedding  was  the  first  thing  that 
had  awakened  interest  in  some  of  them.  They'd  grown 
used  to  me;  then  fond  of  me;  then  part  of  my  family; 
and  they  wanted  to  see  my  daughter's  wedding.  They 
filled  nearly  half  of  the  church — silent  women,  in  their 
decent  black,  rightful  heirs  to  the  glory  of  the  old  flags 
draped  against  the  pillars  and  the  bronze  commemorative 
tablets  set  in  the  walls." 

She  seemed  for  a  moment  to  have  forgotten  me,  then, 
remembering,  went  on,  "It  hadn't  occurred  to  me  until, 
as  I  sat  in  the  old  church  waiting  for  Daphne's  wedding, 
that  never,  since  England  has  had  a  navy,  has  there  been 
a  time  when  a  son  of  our  family  has  not  served  in  it." 

"A  fine  tradition,"  I  praised,  "a  glorious  promise  for  the 
future  years!" 

There  was  silence.  Across  it  the  bell  in  the  cathedral 
tower  called  the  hour;  the  chimes  spoke. 

My  friend  waited  until  the  last  echo  died  away,  then 
faced  me.  "You  never  saw  Hugh,  my  second  son.''  He 
had  already  entered  the  navy  when  we  went  to  Hong- 
Kong."  Her  voice  was  carefully  emotionless  and  clear. 
"Our  place  on  the  navy  lists  is  vacant.  Hugh  went  down 
in  the  'Invincible'  during  the  Jutland  battle,"  she  said, 
then  added,  "Our  boys  commence  their  naval  training 
very  early.  Hugh  was  such  a.  wee  lad  when  he  said 
good-by  .  .  .  and  now — "  Her  voice  lowered  to  a  whis- 
per— "Sometimes,  in  my  dreams,  I  see  the  horror  and  con- 
fusion of  that  sinking  ship  .  .  .  the  greedy  rush  of  the 
gray  waters — "  She  regained  her  composure.  "Curious 
things,  dreams.^"  she  inquired  conversationally. 

I  gasped.  "My  dear!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me — instead 
of  letting  me  blunder  on.^  Are  Jeffrey  and  Wallace  too  old 
to  begin  a  naval  career?  But  of  course  they  are,"  I  floun- 
dered on. 


288  ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN 

Daphne  had  wandered  back  to  us.  "I'll  have  some 
more  tea,"  she  said. 

"Three  cups,  Daphne!"  I  chided,  glad  of  the  interrup- 
tion. 

"You  really  shouldn't  drink  so  much  strong  tea, 
Daphne,"  her  mother  admonished  absently. 

To  my  amazement  Daphne  struck  the  table  violently 
with  her  clenched  fist.  "Tea !"  shie  demanded.  Her 
mother,  without  comment,  poured  it  out.  "How  Daphne 
has  changed — and  her  mother,  too!  She  used  to  be  so 
severe  with  her  children  about  any  lack  of  courtesy,"  I 
thought. 

My  friend  broke  the  silence.  "Do  you  remember  Mrs. 
Gordon,  whose  husband  was  on  the  'Tamar'  at  Hong- 
Kong.?" 

I  nodded. 

"Commander  Gordon  was  with  the  ships  that  went 
down  off  your  South  American  coast,"  she  said.  "For 
some  time  we  thought  that  he  was  lost;  but  later  the  news 
came.  He  had  been  rescued.  Mrs.  Gordon  was  so  splen- 
did through  it  all !  Her  happiness  has  been  the  one  warm- 
ing thing.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  don't  believe  that  some 
of  our  women  will  really  realize  the  bitterness  of  their  loss 
until  they  see  other  women's  husbands  and  sons  coming 
home." 

"I'm  so  glad  for  Mrs.  Gordon,"  I  said,  remembering 
the  tall  commander  and  his  gentle,  pretty  wife. 

My  friend  made  no  comment.  A  little  silence  fell. 
Across  the  peaceful  old  garden  some  rooks,  homeward 
bound,  called  from  the  oaks;  the  bitter  tonic  scent  of 
chrysanthemums  and  box  lingered  in  the  still  air.  It 
was  so  quiet  that  we  could  hear  the  organ  and  choir 
commencing  vespers  at  the  cathedral.  War,  its  agonies, 
tortures,  and  despair  were  mere  unmeaning  words — trans- 
parent nightmares  of  speech,  illusive  as  dreams  against 
the  background  of  this  noble,  serene,  and  tangible  English 
landscape,  which  breathed  of  centuries  of  peace. 

I  sighed  with  thankfulness  for  my  friend;  in  spite  of  her 
sailor  son's  death,  her  world  seemed  full  of  the  promise 
of  happiness  in  the  advancing  years.    Then  I  glanced  at 


HARRIET  WELLES  289 

my  watch  and  saw  that  my  visit  was  nearly  over.  "Do 
you  think  that  your  war-working  pony  will  consent  to  an- 
other trip  to  the  depot — or  shall  I  walk?"  I  asked. 

She  smiled.  "You  won't  have  to  walk,"  she  promised. 
I  gathered  up  my  gloves  and  purse,  while  she  stood  idly 
turning  the  pages  of  the  volume  of  Ruskin's  essays.  A 
paragraph  caught  her  interest.  She  glanced  at  it,  then, 
with  attention,  read  aloud: 

"I  shall  therefore  divide  the  war  of  which  I  would  speak 
to  you  under  three  heads.  War  for  exercise  or  play;  war 
for  dominion;  and,  war  for  defense." 

"H'm'm,"  I  commented  grimly,  "Ruskin's  dead;  if  he 
were  alive  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  found  anything  very 
playful  about  this  war." 

She  made  no  comment,  but  read  on: 

"Now,  remember,  whatever  virtue  or  goodliness  there 
may  be  in  this  game  of  war,  rightly  played,  there  is  none 
when  you  thus  play  it  with  a  multitude  of  human  pawns. 
...  If  you,  the  gentlemen  of  this  or  any  other  kingdom, 
choose  to  make  your  pastime  of  contest,  do  so,  and  wel- 
come; but  set  not  up  these  unhappy  peasant-pieces  upon 
the  checker  of  forest  and  field.  If  the  wager  is  to  be  of 
death,  lay  it  on  your  own  heads,  not  theirs.  A  goodly 
struggle  in  the  Olympic  dust,  though  it  be  the  dust  of  the 
grave,  the  gods  will  look  upon  and  be  with  you  in;  but 
they  will  not  be  with  you  if  you  sit  on  the  sides  of  the 
amphitheatre,  whose  steps  are  the  mountains  of  earth, 
whose  arena  its  valleys,  to  urge  your  peasant  millions  into 
gladiatorial  war." 

"I  suppose  he  means  compulsory  military  training,"  I 
said. 

She  did  not  answer.  "Human  beings  are  very  pitiful, 
I  think,"  she  said,  "striving,  hurrying,  grasping — and  for 
such  paltry  rewards."  She  turned  to  me.  "How  many 
times,  during  your  life,  have  you  been  completely,  un- 
questioningly  happy?"  she  demanded. 

"Well — "  I  parried  uneasily. 

"You  can't  remember  once,"  accused  my  friend,  "no 


290  ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN 

one  can!  If,  for  a  few  minutes,  out  of  doors  in  the  sun- 
shine you  are  happy,  how  soon  the  old  worries,  the  old 
fears,  the  old  griefs,  come  flooding  back.  What's  it  all 
about?" 

I  answered  soberly,  "Surely  there  is  a  cure — a  way 
out  of  such  a  condition,"  I  said. 

"How  American — how  practical !"  she  commented  dryly, 
and  added:  "Don't  forget  to  let  me  know  when  you  dis- 
cover it." 

I  felt  queerly  uneasy,  worried  and  unhappy.  "You 
won't  get  anywhere  by  slumping,"  I  scolded. 

"I  wasn't  getting  anywhere,  before,"  she  retorted;  then 
questioned:  "Wonder  if  those  women  feel  that  the  second- 
hand furniture,  pictures,  and  half-worn  underclothes  their 
husbands  looted,  at  their  behest,  are  worth  what  they 
have  cost?" 

I  was  startled.     "What  women?"  I  asked. 

She  flipped  open  my  dog-eared  book.  "Do  you  just 
buy  Ruskin?  Why  don't  you  read  him?"  she  asked,  and 
hunted  for  a  place.  "Now  listen!"  she  said,  going  on  in 
her  quiet,  clear  voice. 

"I,  for  one,  would  fain  join  in  the  cadence  of  hammer 
strokes  that  should  beat  swords  into  plowshares;  and  that 
this  cannot  be,  is  not  the  fault  of  us  men.  It  is  your  fault. 
Wholly  yours.  Only  by  your  command,  or  by  your  per- 
mission, can  any  contest  take  place  among  us.  And  the 
real,  final  reason  for  all  the  poverty,  misery,  and  rage  of 
battle,  throughout  Europe,  is  simply  that  you  women 
.  .  .  are  too  selfish  and  too  thoughtless  to  take  pains  for 
any  creature  out  of  your  own  immediate  circles.  .  .  . 
Now  I  tell  you  this,  that  if  the  usual  course  of  war,  in- 
stead of  unroofing  peasants'  houses,  and  ravaging  peasants' 
fields,  merely  broke  the  china  upon  your  own  drawing- 
room  tables,  no  war  in  civilized  countries  would  last  a 
week.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  consider  Germany  a  civilized  country,"  I  vol- 
unteered. "Did  Ruskin  really  write  that?"  I  asked,  and 
reached  for  the  book.  "I  hope  it's  translated  into  their 
language,"  I  supplemented. 


HARRIET  WELLES  291 

"They  wouldn't  read  it;  they  don't  need  any  advice 
about  guarding  the  looted  bric-a-brac  on  their  tables," 
she  said. 

"Be  thankful  that  our  returning  men  can  hold  their 
heads  proudly  erect,"  I  exulted. 

"  'Our  returning  men',''  she  repeated. 

We  were  walking  toward  the  house.  "When  do  you 
expect  Jeffrey  and  Wallace  home?  Is  Daphne's  husband 
back.'"   I  asked. 

She  held  the  little  volume  in  both  hands  and  looked 
evenly  at  me:  "Jeffrey  was  killed  at  Alons  during  the  first 
month  of  the  war.  Wallace  was  refused  several  times 
on  account  of  his  eyes.  'What  would  you  do  If  your 
glasses  were  broken:'  they  asked  him  the  last  time  he 
applied.  He  went  out  and  bought  six  pairs,  and  they 
accepted  him.  He  never  needed  a  second  pair,"  said 
my  friend  in  her  quiet,  emotionless  voice. 

I  laid  my  hand  on  her  arm.  "jMy  dear — "  I  cried,  and 
could  go  no  further.    She  turned  her  head  away. 

From  behind  us  came  Daphne's  voice  singing  an  old 
song  of  laughter  and  love  and  a  garden  of  roses.  She 
joined  us  and  looked  puzzledly  at  her  mother.  "What  is 
it?"  she  questioned. 

"We've  been  speaking  of  your  brothers,"  I  whispered. 

She  started  at  me.    "Brothers?"  she  asked. 

I  glanced  at  her  with  astonishment.  "Jeflfrey  and 
Wallace,  who  were  with  you  at  Hong-Kong,"  I  said. 

"Jeffrey — Wallace — Hong-Kong,"  she  repeated  parrot- 
like after  me,  in  vague  and  troubled  bewilderment,  then 
brightened:  ''Were  you  at  my  wedding?  We  had  flowers 
and  flags !" 

I  could  only  stare  at  her. 

Her  mother  motioned  me  into  the  wide  hall.  "Daphne 
and  her  husband  were  spending  his  leave,  and  their  honey- 
moon, in  London;  they  were  just  coming  out  of  a  theatre 
when  a  German  air  raid  started.  George  was  killed  .  .  . 
and  Daphne  struck  on  the  head  ...  by  some  falling 
masonry.  For  days  we  thought  we  couldn't  pull  her 
through — then  the  up-turn  came." 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed.    ''Oh!" 


292  ACCORDING  TO  RUSKIN 

"She  doesn't  remember.  'Never  will  remember,'  the 
doctors  say,"  repeated  my  friend,  and  laid  a  comforting 
hand  on  my  arm.  "Of  course  you  couldn't  know,"  she 
said;  very  earnestly  she  added:  "You  see  how  completely 
life  has  finished  with  me?  Well,  let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing: If  the  Huns,  and  their  ideas,  had  been  allowed 
to  dominate  the  world,  it  wouldn't  have  been  a  tolerable 
place  for  any  right-thinking,  self-respecting,  decent  man 
to  live  in.  And  since  the  only  way  to  remove  that  menace 
was  through  the  sacrifice  of  thousands  of  boys  like  our 
sons  ...  I,  who  stand  bereft,  to-day,  tell  you  that  I  am 
glad  that  things  are  as  they  are." 

I  could  not  speak. 

At  the  doorway  she  bade  me  an  affectionate  good-by. 
"My  husband  will  be  very  sorry  to  have  missed  you. 
Don't  forget  that  you'll  always  find  us  here,  with  a  wel- 
come for  you,"  she  said.  With  a  wave  of  her  hand  she 
indicated  the  wide  landscape  sloping  away  into  far  blue 
hills.  "At  least  we  have  saved  this,  untouched,"  she  added 
bleakly. 

"I'll  be  back,"  I  promised,  and  turned  away  to  hide  the 
blurring  tears. 

Saved,  untouched;  clean  hands;  a  clear  conscience; 
the  right  to  look  any  man,  or  woman,  in  the  eyes.  A 
green  country  with  violet-shadowed  valleys  dreaming  in 
the  sunshine;  the  fairylike  chime  of  cuckoo's  notes  calling 
— calling — calling;  woods,  and  tree  tops  outlined  against 
the  wide  sky;  lazy  cows  knee  deep  in  the  reeds  bordering 
a  silvery  brook;  homeward-faring  pigeons  on  gleaming 
wings;  the  drowsy  note  of  distant  church  bells;  the  hum 
of  bees;  pearly  mists  of  rain;  the  ripple  of  wind  over 
wheat;  the  blackbirds'  flutelike  call;  wide-eyed  daisies; 
darting  swallows,  and  the  scent  of  meadow-sweet: 
England. 

And  yet — and  yet  (oh,  broken  hopes  and  dreams)  the 
lonely  days  that  stretch  ahead !     The  quiet  years. 


Young's  Magazine 


THE  CRYSTAL  FLASK 

BY 

PAUL  ROSENWEY 


THE  CRYSTAL  FLASK  ^ 
By  PAUL  ROSENWEY 

YOUNG  GWILLAM,  fresh  and  brown  from  his  two 
years  in  the  wilds,  and  with  two  inches  added  to  his 
chest  measure,  hurried  to  the  club  and  searched  for  Drys- 
dale.  He  found  his  Petronius  sitting  just  as  he  had  left 
him,  in  the  accustomed  well-cushioned  chair,  in  the  accus- 
tomed corner,  on  his  face  the  accustomed  quiet,  faintly 
amused  smile.  Gwillam  drew  up  a  chair  opposite;  the 
necessary  ceremonies  were  performed,  and  then  they 
plunged  into  one  of  those  long  garrulous  gossips,  which 
they  both  liked  so  well. 

"I  saw  Craig,  to-day,"  said  young  Gwillam,  after  a  time. 
He  paused. 

"Yes,"  said  Drysdale,  non-committally. 

"He  looked  badly,"  added  Gwillam  suggestively.  Drys- 
dale made  no  answer. 

Gwillam  leaned  forward.  "Tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened," he  urged.  "I  liked  Craig;  he  was  always  a  good 
sort  of  fellow.  And  he  is  young  too — not  much  older  than 
myself;  but  to-day  he  looked  like  an  old  man — thin,  gray, 
stooped — a  wreck." 

"He  has  discovered  the  virtues  of  his  uncle's  wedding 
gift,"  said  Drysdale. 

"His  uncle's  wedding  gift:"  echoed  Gwillam  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Did  you  never  hear  of  itr"  asked  Drysdale.  "It  was 
quite  a  subject  of  conversation  at  one  time.  Everyone 
knew  of  it  and  laughed.  It  was  a  very  strange  gift  and  it 
was  given  by  a  very  strange  old  gentleman.  He  is  dead 
now,  but  I  can  imagine  him,  if  he  has  any  knowledge  of 
what  has  taken  place,  grinning  with  the  keenest  dehght. 
It  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  he  would  have  enjoyed. 

^Copyright,  by  Courtland  H.  Young 


296  THE  CRYSTAL  FLASK 

"It  really  began,"  said  Drysdale,  "at  Craig's  weuumg 
breakfast.  You  see,  old  Forsythe — Craig's  uncle — was 
delighted  at  Craig's  marriage.  He — Forsythe — was  old 
even  then;  he  had  a  great  deal  more  money  than  anyone 
needs;  and  he  used  to  worry  dreadfully  about  what  would 
become  of  it  when  he  was  gone.  To  be  sure  he  could  leave 
it  all  to  Craig,  as  he  intended  to  do;  but  life  is  short, 
Craig  would  die,  and  then  who  would  get  the  money? 
He  often  wished  that  Craig  had  a  family  of  youngsters, 
upon  whom  he  might  settle  it,  so  that  for  fifty  or  sixty 
years  at  least  it  would  be  safe.  And  when  Craig  became 
engaged  to  marry  the  old  gentleman  immediately  made 
a  new  will  and  from  that  time  on  displayed  a  joy  so  open 
and  unrestrained  that  it  was  scarcely  decent.  At  the  wed- 
ding breakfast  his  glee  was  almost  childish;  he  became 
quite  garrulous,  and  it  needed  constant  effort  to  restrain 
him  from  telling  stories,  which,  however  humorous  they 
might  prove  to  be,  were,  even  in  their  beginnings,  quite 
evidently  improper.  Still,  though  with  some  difficulty, 
he  was  kept  within  bounds  until  he  insisted  on  making 
a  speech.  As  he  rose  from  his  seat,  a  glass  of  wine  held 
unsteadily  in  his  trembling  old  hand,  a  wicked  smile  on 
his  thin  old  lips,  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  pervaded  the 
company,  and  it  was  very  generally  felt  that  whatever  he 
might  say,  it  could  be  very  well  dispensed  with.  But  no 
one  remonstrated.  When  one  has  a  relative  who  is  at 
once  very  wealthy  and  very  old,  it  is  astonishing  how 
lenient  one  becomes  to  his  little  failings. 

"  'My  dear  Robert — my  dear  Amy,'  began  old  For- 
sythe, glancing  first  at  Craig  and  then  at  his  wife;  'I  have 
already  given  you  your  wedding  gift  as  you  know.'  This 
was  quite  true;  the  old  reprobate  had  given  them  an  ex- 
tremely substantial  check,  to  which  he  found  it  impossible 
not  to  make  allusion.  'But  that  was  more  or  less  formal — 
the  gift  dictated  by  convention.  And  I  wanted  to  give  you 
something  intimate — something,  triifing  perhaps,  but  per- 
sonal— something  so  appropriate  that  it  should  become 
part  of  your  lives.  For  a  long  time  I  racked  my  poor 
old  brains  in  vain;  and  then,  only  yesterday,  I  had  an 
inspiration — quite  an  inspiration!'   he   added   fondly. 

"Craig  and  his  wife  exchanged  glances  of  relief.     The 


PAUL  ROSENWEY  297 

speech  would  probably  pass  oflF  without  disaster  after  all. 

"  'You  may  remember,'  resumed  the  old  gentleman, 
'that  when  I  was  younger  I  traveled  extensively,  but  it 
has  probably  escaped  your  minds  that  I  spent  much  time 
in  Arabia.  Nevertheless  that  is  so.  I  traveled,  not  with 
any  thought  of  exploring  or  attaining  scientific  results,  but 
for  my  own  pleasure  only.  In  spite  of  that,  or  perhaps 
because  of  it,  I  avoided  the  main  routes  of  travel,  and 
always,  so  far  as  was  possible,  sought  remote  and  primitive 
regions.  It  was  in  such  a  place  that  late  one  afternoon 
I  came  upon  a  romantic  little  glade,  hidden  between  two 
ridges  of  the  mountains  I  was  traversing.  All  around, 
the  country  was  bleak  and  barren,  but  here  the  grass  was 
of  the  greenest  and  the  foliage  of  the  freshest;  and  it 
needed  only  a  slight  investigation  to  discover/that  this 
desirable  state  of  affairs  was  due  to  the  waters  of  a  little 
spring  which  rose  from  the  ground  at  one  end  of  the 
glade.  The  water  was  remarkably  clear  and  transparent, 
and  over  the  spring  itself  was  a  small  structure  of  stone, 
which,  though  half  ruined  by  the  passage  of  time,  still 
bore  a  very  evident  resemblance  to  a  miniature  temple. 
My  interest  was  strongly  aroused;  I  scented  a  story,  and 
I  had  my  guide  make  inquiry  of  the  villagers.  I  was 
right;  there  was  a  story  and  one  which  interested  me 
greatly.  For  at  that  time  I  was  still  young  and,  though 
it  is  I  who  say  it,  not  without  attraction  for  the  ladies; 
and  I  still  entertained  hopes  that  some  day  I  would  know 
those  joys  and  delights  that  have  come  to  my  lucky  young 
nephew.  So  I  got  from  my  baggage  an  old  crystal  flask, 
which  I  had  picked  up  in  Bassorah,  and  filled  it  from  the 
spring;  my  guide  produced  an  aromatic  gum  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  burning  for  the  enjoyment  of  its  odor, 
and  we  hermetically  sealed  the  flask,  which  from  that  day 
to  this  I  have  always  preserved  most  carefully.  The  day 
is  long  past,  however,  when  it  can  be  of  use  to  me,  whereas 
the  time  has  only  just  begun,  my  dear  Robert  and  my  dear 
Amy,  when  it  can  be  of  use  to  you.  So  it  is  this  flask, 
my  dears,  which  I  have  chosen  as  my  real  gift  to  you.' 

"He  fumbled  beneath  the  flowers  and  ferns  which 
covered  the  table  before  him,  and  from  its  hiding-place 
produced  something  which  he  held  high  in  his  hand  that 


298  THE  CRYSTAL  FLASK 

all  might  see.  It  was  a  flask  of  crystal,  long,  slender  and 
delicately  fashioned,  and  filled  to  the  very  stopper  with  a 
liquid  which,  though  colorless  and  transparent,  seemed  in 
the  blazing  light  to  sparkle  and  give  forth  faint  iridescent 
gleam.s.  It  was  a  beautiful  thing,  and  Craig's  wife  gave 
a  little  exclamation  of  delight  as  the  old  gentleman  bowed 
courteously  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  'But  Uncle  Robert,'  she  reminded  him,  as  she  took  it, 
'the  story?    You  said  there  was  a  story.' 

"  'Oh,  yes,  my  dear,'  replied  Uncle  Robert,  'you  shall 
have  the  story,  which  is  most  important.  For  you  must 
know  that  the  spring  is  a  magic  spring,  and  the  water 
in  the  flask  is  magic  too,  with  most  magical  properties. 
The  spring  had  its  origin  in  the  tears  of  an  unfortunate 
young  maiden  named  Zubaydah,  who,  on  the  very  spot 
where  it  now  flows,  found  the  body  of  her  lover  Ghanim, 
cruelly  slain.  She  fell  on  his  breast,  lamenting  wildly, 
and  when  they  tore  him  away  from  her  embracing  arms, 
she  w-ould  not  stir,  but  remained  there,  refusing  drink 
and  food  alike,  and  weeping,  weeping  constantly,  until 
in  the  end  she  too  died.  Their  story  is  most  pathetic  and 
some  day  you  shall  hear  it;  but  now  it  is  of  no  further 
importance,  save  for  the  fact  that  when  they  bore  her 
tenderly  away,  a  spring  was  flowing  from  the  ground 
she  had  so  plentifully  watered  with  her  tears.  And  the 
water  of  that  spring  had  this  remarkable  quality:  that 
when  a  flask  of  it  is  jointly  possessed  by  true  lovers,  so 
long  as  neither  commits  a  crime  against  their  mutual 
love,  the  water  remains  as  you  saw  it,  clear,  sparkling, 
translucent;  but  should  either  of  the  lovers  prove  false 
to  the  other,  the  water  becomes  dark,  thick,  muddy — an 
ugly  symbol  of  the  wrong  that  has  been  done. 

"  'Always,  even  when  I  was  quite  young,'  concluded 
old  Forsythe,  'there  was  in  my  nature  a  strong  material- 
istic strain — a  strain  of  cynicism  some  said;  but  to  me  it 
seemed  rather  a  strain  of  common  sense,  which  enabled 
me  to  see  things  as  they  were,  quite  uninfluenced  by  the 
emotional  disturbances  which  impaired  the  calm  judgments 
of  my  fellows.  So,  though  at  this  time  I  expected  to  marry 
and,  of  course,  expected  that  my  wife  would  be  in  love 
with  me  when  we  married,  yet  I  was  quite  aware  that 


PAUL  ROSENWEY  299 

there  could  be  no  guarantee  that  she  would  remain  so. 
The  value  of  a  flask  of  this  water  to  a  person  so  able 
as  myself  to  gaze  without  blinking  upon  the  realities 
of  life,  was  very  evident.  I  should  present  it  to  my  wife 
on  our  wedding  day  and  tell  her  its  story;  and  though 
I  knew  it  could  avail  no  more  than  anything  else  on  this 
earth  to  keep  me  her  love,  yet  I  hoped  that  it  might 
serve  to  guard  me  against  those  unpleasant  little  eccen- 
tricities of  conduct  which  sometimes  follow  the  death  of 
conjugal  alTection.  It  was  with  this  hope  that  I  always 
preserved  it,  and  it  is  with  a  similar  hope  on  your  be- 
half, my  dear  Robert,  that  I  have  presented  you  and  Amy 
with  the  flask.' 

"The  old  gentleman  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  a  stunned 
silence.  It  was,  of  course,  an  atrocious  thing  that  he  had 
done.  On  their  very  wedding  day  to  suggest  that  the 
love  of  the  bridal  pair  might  not  last  forever!  Craig's 
face  was  pale  and  his  lips  were  tightly  compressed;  on 
Amy's  cheeks  burned  two  angry  red  spots.  But,  as  I 
have  said  before,  when  one  has  a  relative  who  is  very  old 
and  also  very  wealthy,  it  is  astonishing  how  lenient  one 
becomes  toward  his  lapses  from  what  one  believes  to  be 
the  coircct  standards  of  taste  and  conduct.  Neither  Craig 
nor  his  wife  spoke;  the  silence  lasted  yet  another  moment, 
then  some  one  made  a  remark,  v/hich,  however  pointless, 
at  least  had  the  merit  of  provoking  a  general  conversation, 
in  the  course  of  which  old  Forsythe  and  his  crudeness 
were  ignored  by  general  consent. 

"A  little  later  Craig  found  his  wife  upstairs,  just  as  she 
had  donned  her  traveling  dress.  Uncle  Robert,  of  course, 
was  not  there;  and  Craig  permitted  himself  to  become 
quite  angry.  The  flask  stood  sparkling  in  the  sunlight, 
on  a  little  table  where  Amy  had  placed  it  on  coming  into 
the  room.  Craig  would  have  smashed  it  to  pieces,  but 
Amy  stayed  his  hand. 

"  'Oh,  no,'  she  said,  'your  uncle  may  ask  for  it  when 
he  comes  to  see  us,  and  we  could  not  afford  to  offend  him 
by  telling  him  we  had  destroyed  it.' 

"The  fact  that  it  was  she  who  saved  the  flask  from 
destruction,  afterwards  seemed  to  Craig  a  rare  bit  of 
irony;  but  at  the  time  he  saw  only  an  early  proof  of  the 


300  THE  CRYSTAL  FLASK 

wise,  semi-maternal  interest  every  good  wife  takes  in  her 
husband's  affairs,  and  he  found  it  so  inexpressibly  touching 
that,  instead  of  smashing  the  flask,  he  kissed  his  wife. 

"Nevertheless,  they  did  not  exhibit  old  Forsythe's  wed- 
ding gift  conspicuously  in  their  drawing-room,  though  it 
was  there  that  they  found  it  greeting  them  upon  returning 
from  their  trip.  What  to  do  with  it  was  quite  a  problem 
until  Mrs.  Craig  found  a  vacant  space  behind  a  row  of 
books  in  the  library,  and  there  it  was  promptly  bestowed. 
You  see,  as  a  hiding-place,  this  spot  had  two  great  virtues: 
it  hid,  which  is  a  requisite  of  all  hiding-places,  and  it 
allowed  the  flask  to  be  quickly  produced  in  case  of  Uncle 
Robert's  visits,  which  was  a  requisite  of  this  particular 
hiding-place. 

"After  about  two  years  had  passed,  however,  they 
found  that  they  had  lost  all  sensitiveness  upon  the  subject, 
and  they  even,  at  times,  with  a  decided  feeling  of  being  an 
old  married  couple,  treated  the  episode  humorously  for 
the  benefit  of  their  friends.  'Dear  Uncle  Robert  and  his 
quaint  idea  of  an  appropriate  wedding  gift!'  They  were 
able  to  adopt  this  attitude  the  more  easily,  perhaps,  be- 
cause there  seemed  so  little  probability  that  the  event,  to 
guard  against  which  Uncle  Robert  had  given  them  the 
flask,  would  ever  occur.  They  were  a  model  couple — 
Darby  and  Joan  in  all  respects  save  that  of  age,  and 
neither  had  ever  shown  the  slightest  inclination  to  stray 
beyond  the  strictest  limits  imposed  by  the  matrimonial 
tether.  This  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  for  two  years  they 
had  not  been  separated  for  twenty-four  hours  at  a  time. 
Or  should  I  say  because  of  it."*  One  can  never  tell.  At 
any  rate,  when  Uncle  Robert  died,  about  this  time,  he  had 
been  entirely  forgiven,  and  they  grieved  for  him  quite  sin- 
cerely. 

"Now  it  happened  that  the  bulk  of  the  estate  which  the 
old  gentleman  had  left  to  Craig  and  any  possible  children, 
was  stock  in  a  rubber  concession  in  two  of  the  smaller 
South  American  states;  and  it  also  happened  that  just  after 
Forsythe's  death,  acute  trouble  began  to  develop  between 
the  two  countries.  After  several  weeks  of  great  anxiety, 
Craig  felt  that  he  had  no  choice,  but  must  go  and  defend 
his    interests    in    person.      Accordingly,    he    immediately 


PAUL  ROSENWEY  301 

began  his  preparations  for  the  trip.  Mrs.  Craig  desired 
earnestly  to  go  with  him,  but  of  this  he  would  not  hear. 

"  'I  shall  not  be  gone  over  two  months  at  the  most,'  he 
said,  'and  that  is  not  really  such  a  long  time.  Besides, 
there  will  be  danger  for  you  if  it  comes  to  hostilities; 
and  there  is  always  fever.' 

"In  the  end  Mrs.  Craig  was  persuaded  to  stay  at  home, 
and  Craig  went  alone.  On  the  night  before  he  sailed  he 
had  an  inspiration.  He  was  in  the  library,  disposing  of 
some  odds  and  ends  of  his  affairs,  when  the  inspiration 
came  to  him.  He  went  to  the  bookshelves,  pushed  aside 
some  books  and  took  out  the  crystal  flask.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  held  it  in  the  light  of  the  reading  lamp,  admiring 
the  lustre  of  the  delicate  glass  and  the  clear  transparency 
of  the  liquid  it  contained.  A  smile  curved  his  lips,  and 
he  held  the  neck  of  the  flask  over  the  flame  of  the  lamp 
until  the  sealing  gum  was  softened,  then  removed  the 
stopper,  poured  out  part  of  the  contents  and  refilled  the 
flask  with  ink.  When  he  had  replaced  the  stopper,  he 
again  held  the  flask  to  the  light,  but  now  the  liquid  it  con- 
tained was  a  dirty,  muddy  gray — the  color  he  wished.  He 
smiled  again  in  satisfaction,  and  returned  the  flask  to  its 
old  place  on  the  bookshelf, 

"You  see,  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  an  excellent  joke 
upon  his  wife.  She  would  in  all  probability  discover  the 
flask  at  some  time  during  his  absence;  she  would  realize 
immediately  what  he  had  done;  and  he  could  imagine  her 
laughing  with  him  across  the  thousand  miles  that  sep- 
arated them.  And  what  a  finish  it  would  make  to  their 
story !  Perhaps,  too,  she  Would  play  up  to  the  situation 
by  pretending  to  take  her  discovery  seriously.  The 
affair  was  full  of  humorous  possibilities,  and  he  amused 
himself  greatly  in  anticipating  them. 

"But  the  absence  which  was  to  have  extended  over  not 
more  than  two  months,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  lasted  for  a 
little  more  than  a  year.  During  all  this  time  it  was  never 
certain  that  Craig  would  not  be  able  to  return  almost  im- 
mediately; there  was  therefore  no  reason  for  his  wife  to 
join  him,  and  she  remained  at  home — alone. 

"Upon  what  must  have  happened  I  can  only  touch 
lightly,  because  I  cannot  understand  it.    Mrs.  Craig  was 


302  THE  CRYSTAL  FLASK 

alone,  it  is  true,  but  her  husband  loved  her;  and  when  he 
left,  she  had  undoubtedly  cared  for  him.  Of  course,  with 
the  sudden  increase  in  Craig's  income,  she  was  thrown 
with  a  set  she  had  never  met  before;  she  and  Craig  had 
not  been  poor,  but  this  change  meant  wealth,  really  great 
wealth,  and  perhaps  It  turned  her  head.  Perhaps,  being 
as  strangely  illogical  and  as  strongly  resentful  of  fancied 
slights  as  women  always  are  in  matters  which  concern 
their  affections,  she  had  convinced  herself  that  Craig  need 
never  have  stayed  from  her  so  long,  if  his  inclination  and 
his  duty  had  not  traveled  along  the  same  road,  and  in 
her  anger  sought  for  revenge.  Perhaps  .  .  .  but  I  do  not 
know.    One  can  never  tell. 

"When  at  last  Craig  returned  home,  however,  she 
greeted  him  with  manifestations  of  greatest  pleasure;  and 
Craig  himself,  when  I  met  him  on  the  street  two  days 
after  his  arrival,  seemed  radiantly  happy.  He  had  reason 
to  be;  he  had  wealth,  occupation,  strength  and  the  love 
of  the  woman  whom  he  loved.  He  probably  thought 
himself,  and  he  certainly  seemed  to  me,  one  of  the  favored 
ones  of  the  world. 

"It  was  in  all  probability  on  the  evening  of  this  day 
that  he  first  thought  of  the  flask,  and  then  it  dawned  on 
him  quite  suddenly  that  his  wife  had  not  spoken  of  it. 
His  joke,  of  course,  had  failed,  because  if  she  had  seen 
the  flask  during  his  absence,  he  would  long  since  have 
heard  something  of  it.  Still,  he  would  get  it  out  and  make 
what  he  could  of  the  change  that  had  come  over  it. 

"  'Amy,'  he  said,  'we  have  forgotten  to  look  at  the 
flask.'  He  watched  her  closely,  but  her  face  did  not 
change.  She  did  not  even  show  the  slight  surprise  that 
might  have  been  expected  at  his  sudden  introduction  of  the 
subject. 

"  'So  we  have,'  she  answered.  She  smiled  slightly.  'If 
you  think  an  inspection  necessary,  will  you  get  itr'  She 
was  so  ready  that  it  seemed  almost  as  if  she  had  been 
waiting  for  his  suggestion;  but  he  did  not  notice  this — 
at  the  time. 

"He  walked  across  the  room,  already  smiling  as  he 
thought  of  the  surprise  in  store  for  her.  Still  smiling  he 
reached  down  into  the  vacant  space  behind  the  books  until 


PAUL  ROSENWEY  303 

he  found  the  flask,  then  turned  and  held  it  to  the 
light.  .  .  . 

''That  was  a  year  ago. 

"The  next  day  Craig  went  to  Canada.  He  did  not 
return  until  his  wife  had  sailed  for  Europe.  She  is  still 
there,  and  Craig  is — as  you  saw  him." 

Drysdale  stopped. 

''But  what  was  the  matter?  What  was  wrong?"  ex- 
claimed young  Gwillam.     "What — " 

Drysdale  interrupted  him. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "when  he  looked  at  the  flask  that 
night,  it  had  once  more  been  filled  with  a  perfectly  clear 
and  transparent  liquid." 


WHY  THE  EDITORS  BUY 


ADVENTURE 

AS  Adventure  readers  include  the  cultured  and  critical 
as  well  as  those  of  simple  tastes,  we  seek  the  kind  of 
workmanship  that  will  stand  the  difficult  test  of  meeting  the 
approval  of  both  groups.  But  in  selecting  our  fiction  it  always 
seems  to  us  that  only  that  part  of  the  story  is  effective  that 
reaches  the  reader's  mind  and  the  highest  literary  attainment 
is  likely  to  go  hand  in  hand  with  simplicity   and  clearness. 

We  regard  it  as  vitally  important  that  the  illusion  should  be 
kept  up.  We  want  the  reader  to  leave  his  own  world  and  to 
live  entirely  in  the  world  of  the  story.  For  this  reason  we  dislike 
too  pronounced  mannerisms  of  style,  too  unusual  names  for 
characters,  misstatements  in  local  color,  improbability  in  plot 
details.  We  also  wish  that  the  author  would  avoid  the  obtru- 
sion of  his  own  personality  into  the  story,  too  much  surface 
cleverness,  the  specific  call  upon  the  reader  to  philosophize 
(thus  making  him  think,  rather  than  keeping  him  in  the  recep- 
tive mood),  a  too  cynical  or  sophisticated  attitude  on  the 
author's  part.  In  general  the  two  points — clearness  and  keep- 
ing the  illusion — are  probably  those  which  we  emphasize  most 
particularly.  We  have  in  addition  certain  types  of  story  that 
we  try  to  avoid: — those  that  involve  international  or  political 
questions;  we  dislike  stories  of  opium  smuggling;  stories  in 
which  all  of  the  main  characters  are  "natives";  stories  which 
feature  intermarriage.  Generally  speaking,  we  do  not  care 
much  for  a  villain  in  the  role  of  central  character;  nor  for  much 
high  society  atmosphere;  millionaire  circles;  prisons;  slums;  lost 
wills;  psychopathic  cases;  gangsters.  Of  course  exceptions  to 
all  of  the  above  sometimes  force  themselves  upon  us  by  sheer 
merit. 

We  do  not  insist  upon  the  accepted  idea  of  the  "happy  ending" 
but  we  prefer  stories  that  uplift  rather  than  depress.  We  con- 
sider only  the  net  effect  of  the  story  on  the  reader  for  the  man 
or  woman  who  is  reading  a  magazine,  is  doing  so,  primarily  with 
the  idea  of  enjoying  or  relaxing,  not  to  be  made  uncomfortable 
or  unhappy.  However,  a  story  to  sell  to  Adventure  need  not 
be  artificially  shaped.  We  are  looking  for  stories  that  will 
please  our  readers  and  the  range  of  selection  is  wide  indeed. 

Arthur  S.  Hoffman. 

Adventure. 

The  Ridgeway   Company,   Publishers, 
Spring  and  Macdougal  Streets, 
New  York  City. 


308  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


THE  AMERICAN  MAGAZINE 

IN  bu)ing  a  story  for   The  American  Magazine  I   have   four 
leading  questions  in  mind: 

1.  Is  it  interesting? 

2.  Is  it  true? 

3.  Does    it    add    to   our   store    of   knowledge   of    human 
nature? 

4.  Is  there  a  lift  to  it? 

Not  all  four  requirements  are  always  met  in  the  stories  I  take 
but  they  are  the  main  guide-posts.  Let  me  take  these  questions 
in  their  order  and  be  more  detailed  and  explicit  concerning  each 
one. 

If  a  story  isn't  interesting,  or  has  a  very  limited  field  of  inter- 
est, no  matter  how  well  written  it  is,  I  cannot  use  it  in  The 
American  Magazine.  And  the  interest  must  not  be  sporadic, 
it  must  be  cumulative  in  its  effect.  A  story  should  grip  the 
reader's  attention  at  the  beginning  and  hold  it  steadily  all  the 
way  through.  Good  progressive  writing  is  far  more  effective 
than  that  which  contains  a  number  of  thrills  linked  together  by 
long,  arid  paragraphs. 

In  asking  myself — is  it  true? — I  do  not  intend  to  convey  the 
meaning  that  I  am  looking  for  stories  of  real  happenings.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  fiction  doesn't  dare  be 
as  wild  and  exciting  as  real  life.  As  Byron  wisely  said,  "Truth  is 
always  strange — stranger  than  fiction."  Consequently  I  look  for 
stories  that  ring  true,  the  characters  in  which  have  their  counter- 
parts in  everyday  life  or  are  so  vividly  created  by  the  writer  that 
they  are  accepted  by  the  reader  as  natural,  even  if  unusual, 
human  beings.  In  the  making  of  a  plot  I  want  sanity  enthroned, 
the  believable  things  of  life  depicted;  not  cock  and  bull  fakes, 
which  although  they  may  create  momentary  excitement  will  cause 
the  re«der  to  lay  the  story  down  and  say,  "It's  all  right,  but  it's 
highly  colored  and  far-fetched."  I  would  infinitely  rather  have 
less  excitement,  fewer  dramatic  pyrotechnics  and  have  the  reader 
slap  his  knee  and  exclaim,  "Can  you  beat  that  for  the  real 
thing!"  I  want  him  to  coToborate  and  testify  to  the  convincing- 
ness and  obvious  truth  of  che  story  out  of  his  own  experiences 
and  observations  or  through  the  instinctive  acceptance  of  it  by 
his  imagination. 

I  hope,  however,  from  the  foregoing  words  writers  will  not 
run  away  with  the  idea  that  so  long  as  the  characters  are  life- 
like a  story  will  get  across.     The  ideal  story  for  this  magazine 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  309 

is  one  that  has  a  convincing  plot  as  well  as  convincing  charac- 
ters. But  I  would  rather  sacrifice  plot  to  characterization  any 
day  of  the  week.  If  a  story  comes  into  the  office  slender  of  plot 
but  brimful  of  human  wisdom  and  accurate  character  work,  I 
buy  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  some  of  the  most  successful  stories 
I  have  published  have  been  of  this  type.  I  do  not,  however,  buy 
a  story  that  is  strong  on  plot  if  the  characters  are  overdrawn  or 
unnatural  and  it  has  an  atmosphere  of  unreality. 

This  brings  me  to  my  third  question:  "Does  it  add  to  our  store 
of  knowledge  of  human  nature?"  If  the  people  in  a  story  are 
natural,  if  they  meet  problems  with  sense  of  humor,  if  their 
actions  are  interestingly  sane  and  normal,  and  the  story  presents 
news  of  human  nature  wisely  and  accurately,  the  reader  can 
scarcely  avoid  learning  something  to  his  advantage.  His  sym- 
pathy and  imagination  are  going  to  be  aroused  and  quickened 
only  by  stories  that  are  probable  in  both  character  and  plot,  be- 
cause they  alone  will  give  him  a  true  slant  on  human  nature  and 
add  to  his  understanding  of  it. 

In  commenting  on  the  last  question,  I  feel  I  cannot  too 
strongly  emphasize  the  need  of  the  quality  which  I  define  as 
"lift."  A  story  may  be  surpassingly  true,  the  characterization 
good,  the  plot  well  thought  out,  but  if  it  does  not  stir  the  emo- 
tion, if  it  doesn't  make  the  reader  feel  better,  I  am  not  keen 
for  it.  I  want  cheerful  stories  that  leave  a  sense  of  satisfaction 
in  their  wake — stories  that  are  full  of  warmth,  charm,  friendli- 
ness, and  right  living.  Highly  colored,  far-fetched  or  gloomy 
fiction  ma}'  interest  for  a  moment,  but  it  will  not  yield  genuine 
and  lasting  pleasure.  I  avoid  unpleasantly  tragic  and  morbid 
stories,  no  matter  how  well  written,  because  they  usually  leave 
a  distinct  effect  of  depression.  The  reader  has  to  recover  from 
them;  climb  painfully  back  to  a  normal  belief  in  human  kind. 
I  must  have  stories  that  touch  the  heart  as  well  as  appeal  to 
the  intellect.  They  must  satisfy  the  reader  and  leave  him  with 
the  feeling  of  time  well  spent. 

In  dividing  my  answer  to  your  question  into  definite  heads 
I  see  that  these  overlap  each  other  and  that  consequently  my 
explanations  do  the  same  in  a  measure.  But  at  least  they  are 
not  contradictory,  and  I  hope  the  cumulative  effect  makes  my 
practice  clear.  You  realize  much  must  be  left  out  of  an  attempt 
to  set  down  briefly  an  editorial  policy  relating  to  so  wide  and 
varied   a  literary  field   as  that  of  fiction. 

John  M.  Siddall. 
The  American  Magazitie. 
The  Crovvell  Publishing  Co., 
381   Fourth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


310  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY 

THE  American  Boy  aims  to  interest  and  help  boys  between 
the  ages  of  twelve  and  twenty,  recognizing  the  fact  that  to 
be  helpful  to  the  boy  it  is  necessary  first  to  secure  his  interest 
and  command  his  attention.  Stories  and  articles  should  be  of 
such  literary  quality  as  will  inculcate  the  best  literary  standards 
in  the  boy  reader,  as  well  as  interest  him  and  have  an  effective 
message.  The  atmosphere  must  be  wholesome,  alive,  vigorous, 
and  inspiring,  and  stories  should  be  a  force  for  good,  not  re- 
pelling the  boy  reader  by  too  obvious  moralizing,  but  implying 
the  moral  by  the  characters  and  the  action.  The  magazine  en- 
deavors to  put  before  its  boys,  through  the  medium  of  stories, 
boy  heroes  who  can  set  them  fine  examples;  in  business  stories, 
it  endeavors  to  inculcate  the  principles  of  good  business;  in  ath- 
letic stories,  it  sets  forth  high  athletic  ideals. 

The  American  Boy  is  always  particularly  careful  in  the  pres- 
entation of  facts.  Stories  and  articles  should  always  teach 
truth.  Fiction  stories,  of  course,  need  not  be  true  stories — 
stories  of  actual  facts — but  they  should  give  accurate  pictures 
of  the  phases  of  life  they  are  representing;  they  should  not 
misrepresent  the  facts  of  geography,  natural  science,  history,  bus- 
iness, or  human  relationships.  Writers  who  get  into  the  Ameri- 
can Boy  are  those  who  have  a  story  to  tell — a  point  to  make — 
that  is  worth  while;  a  story  of  daring  which  provides  a  hero 
(always  demanded  by  boys);  a  story  of  adventure  that  satisfies 
the  boy's  natural  longing  to  roam;  a  story  of  an  exciting  game 
which,  enthralling  the  boy,  makes  clear  to  him  what  is  right  and 
what  is  wrong;  a  story  of  service  that  will  aid  the  boy  to  adjust 
himself  to  social  life;  a  story  of  business  that  will  give  the  boy 
a  true  impression  of  the  workaday  world  he  is  to  enter.  Ma- 
terial with  a  strong  feminine  element  is  not  used  in  the  Ameri- 
can Boy;  nor  is  "little  kid"  material.  The  average  age  of 
American  Boy  readers  is  sixteen;  and  boys  of  that  age  are  in- 
terested in  the  doings,  not  of  boys  younger  than  themselves, 
but  of  boys  their  own  age,  or  older,  and  of  men. 

Something  to  be  borne  in  mind  by  those  who  essay  to  write 
for  a  boys'  magazine  is  the  distinct  difference  between  stories  of 
boys  and  stories  for  boys.  The  story  of  boys  is  particularly 
popular  just  now  in  adult  magazines.  It  tells  of  a  boy  from  the 
adult  viewpoint.  To  the  adult,  what  the  boy  does  is  often  dis- 
tinctly humorous.  To  the  boy  it  is  serious  business,  and  he 
would  be  properly  offended  should  one  poke  fun  at  him  in  his 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  311 

own  magazine.  The  story  for  boys  must  be  handled  from  the 
boy  viewpoint,  not  from  the  adult  viewpoint.  This  does  not 
mean  that  the  story  should  be  "written  down" — quite  the  re- 
verse. Once  having  grasped  the  boy  viewpoint  and  secured 
the  proper  angle,  the  writer  should  use  the  same  style  and  dic- 
tion as  in  handling  the  story  of  similar  sort  for  the  ordinary 
adult  publication. 

The  story  for  boys  need  not  necessarily  be  a  story  of  boys. 
True,  a  boy  is  more  likely  to  be  interested  in  a  story  with  a  boy 
hero  than  in  a  story  of  an  adult  hero.  The  magazine  wishes  to 
place  before  its  readers  fictional  characters  whom  the  boy  may 
emulate.     It  is  such  characters  which  arouse  his  enthusiasm. 

Walter  P.  McGuire. 
The  American  Boy. 
Detroit,  Michi<:an. 


ARGOSY-ALLSTORY  WEEKLY 

WHY  are  manuscripts  rejected?  "Why  is  a  mouse  when  it 
spins?"  Perhaps  the  reply  to  the  ancient  wheeze,  "Be- 
cause the  higher  the  fewer,"  is  as  satisfactory  an  answer  to  the 
first  question  as  any.  There  are  so  many  reasons,  in  fact;  so 
many  varied  and  diverse  considerations  that  enter  into  the  ac- 
ceptance or  rejection  of  a  manuscript  that  a  direct  and  con- 
cise answer  is  impossible.  Wholly  aside  from  the  merit  of  the 
story  there  is  the  question  of  the  editorial,  business,  political, 
and  religious  policy  of  the  magazine;  the  quantity  and  character 
of  the  material  on  hand;  the  length  of  the  story  which  exigen- 
cies of  make-up  may  make  impossible  for  that  particular  maga- 
zine, at  that  particular  time,  and  a  dozen  other  considerations, 
varying  with  each  publication  and  of  which  the  author  is  quite 
unconscious. 

Generally  speaking  however  90  per  cent  of  manuscripts  are 
rejected  because  they  fail  to  grip  the  interest  in  the  first  few 
pages.  It  might  be  remembered  that  the  editor  in  his  official 
capacity  is  not  an  analyst  or  critic.  He  is  first  and  foremost  a 
buyer;  and  moreover  a  buyer  of  comparatively  small  quantities 
picked  from  an  enormous  mass  of  material  in  a  limited  time. 
It  would  be  a  total  impossibility  for  him  to  read  and  weigh  in 
its  entirety  every  manuscript  that  comes  before  him.  Also  it  is 
unnecessary.     One  doesn't  have  to  eat  the  whole  of  the  egg  to 


312  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

discover  it  is  passe.  He  is  a  buyer  and  he  knows,  or  is  sup- 
posed to,  the  tastes  and  desires  of  his  principal — that  is  to  say 
the  particular  fraction  of  the  general  public  to  which  his 
particular  periodical  caters — he  knows  what  they  want  and  it 
is  from  that  point  of  view  that  he  reads.  It  is  his  job  and  his 
joy  to  supply  his  readers  not  only  with  what  they  want  but  with 
the  best  of  what  they  want,  and,  if  authors  would  only  believe 
it,  there  is  more  rejoicing  in  the  editorial  heaven  over  one  new 
writer  of  promise  than  over  the  ninety  and  nine  who  have 
already  arrived. 

An  editor  is  not  an  incompetent  ass  because  he  rejects  for 
his  adventure  magazine  a  story  that  later  is  snapped  up  by  the 
Century  or  Atlantic,  although  authors  are  apt  to  chortle  glee- 
fully over  such  a  contretemps ;  nor  is  there  any  truth  in  the 
oft  repeated  rumors — propagated  by  the  failures — of  a  cabal  to 
suppress  budding  genius,  and  a  clique  of  editors  to  guard  the 
Olympian  heights  from  all  but  those  bearing  the  stamp  of 
approval  of  their  masters.  As  a  matter  of  fact  if  an  author 
after  real  and  conscientious  effort  fails  to  sell  it  is  either  be- 
cause his  stuff  does  not  measure  up  to  standard  or  because 
he  is  persistently  peddling  to  the  wrong  market.  You  can't  sell 
the  finest  line  of  fancy  flower  pots  to  a  fish  dealer. 

It  is  this  latter  point  that  should  be  stressed  especially.  Far 
too  many  really  able  authors  fail  to  understand  the  value  of  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  market.  Most  of  them  haven't 
even  a  general  knowledge  of  it;  do  not  think  of  it  at  all.  To 
them  a  magazine  is  a  magazine.  Their  attitude  is  "You  pub- 
lish stories,  Why  not  mine?"  and  they  send  a  beautifully  writ- 
ten and  wholly  plotless  character  sketch  to  a  publication  using 
only  rapid  fire  adventure  stuff  and  a  charming  little  New 
England  pastoral  to  one  of  the  magazines  devoted  wholly  to  sex 
topics,  and  then  wonder  why  they  come  back. 

Perhaps  speaking  broadly  it  is  this  ignorance  of  market  that 
accounts  for  at  least  a  large  percentage  of  the  rejections  that 
afflict  authors  (aside  from  the  vast  army  of  amateurs,  novices 
and  hopeless  incompetents)    whose  work  is  really  good. 


Elliot   Baiestier. 


Argosy-Allstory  Weekly. 
The  Frank  A.  Munsey  Co., 
280  Broadway, 
New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  313 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 

IT  really  would  not  serve  your  purpose  if  I  were  to  write  you 
about  my  principles  of  accepting  stories.  They  are  too  capri- 
cious, and  would  only  tend  to  lower  the  feelings  of  respect  which 
you   are  inculcating  in  your   readers. 

Quite  seriously,  my  selection  is  made  according  to  the  whim 
of  one  individual. 


Ellery  Sedgwick. 


The  Atlantic  Monthly. 
8  Arlington  Street, 
Boston,  Mass. 


THE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE 

WHEN  you  ask  me  what  kind  of  stories  we  want  for  The 
Century,  I  am  puzzled  about  answering,  for  the  truth 
is  we  like  almost  all  kinds,  provided  they  are  done  with  dis- 
tinction. I  think  I  may  speak  for  the  editorial  staf?  when  I 
say  that  distinction  is  the  mark  at  which  we  are  aiming. 

The  Century  is  a  family  magazine,  edited  for  the  mature 
members  of  the  family.  Every  one  who  reads  the  magazine 
knows  that  we  welcome  new  writers.  Indeed,  it  is  a  day  of 
rejoicing  when  the  mail  yields  a  story  of  real  promise  by  an  un- 
known writer. 

We  do  not  want  war  stories,  for  the  public  is  tired  of  war- 
fiction;  nor  "machine-made"  stories,  the  cheap  clap-trap  that 
has  nothing  to  recommend  it  but  facility. 

For  myself,  1  have  a  confession  to  make.  It  is  this:  "I  do  not 
know  much  about  art,  but  I  know  what  I  like!"  I  am  aware 
that  the  knowing  will  look  askance  upon  this  avowal  of  the 
Philistine,  but  it  is  a  good  creed  and  wears  well.  And  I  believe 
that  the  editor  who  pleases  himself  in  the  selection  of  manu- 
scripts stands  a  better  chance  of  pleasing  others  than  he  who 
guesses  at  the  tastes  of  a  fickle  general  public  whom  he  fancies 
as  remote  from  himself  in  their  likings  as  a  race  of  Martians. 

Simplicity  and  Sincerity  are  the  true  gods  in  art  as  in  life; 
of  that  1  am  sure. 


314  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

You  ask  me  to  mention  several  short  stories  published  in  The 
Century  within  four  or  five  years  that  we  like  particularly  and 
to  tell  you  why.  I  think  first  of  "The  Friends,"  by  Stacy 
Aumonler,  printed  In  October,  1915.  This  story  is  an  unplotted, 
realistic  study  of  two  drunkards,  friends  whose  only  bond  was 
drink.  It  is  perhaps  the  most  powerful  prohibition  tract  ever 
published  and  not  a  word  of  prohibition  in  It!  An  analysis  of 
Aumonier's  work — any  bit  of  it — will  reveal  a  sureness  of  touch 
which  is  a  refreshment  to  the  soul.  Some  of  his  stories  are 
finer  than  others,  of  course,  but  like  Phyllis  Bottorne  and  Anne 
Douglas  Sedgwick,  there  Is  always  distinction  about  his  work. 

Some  of  the  critics  were  good  enough  to  call  "The  Friends" 
the  best  story  published  in  any  magazine  that  year.  To  me, 
besides  my  admiration  for  It  as  an  artistic  creation,  It  stands  for 
two  things:  one,  an  example  of  an  Interesting  phenomenon, — 
Mr.  Aumonler  was  a  man  In  middle  life,  I  am  told,  when  he 
began  writing,  and  evidently  found  a  beautiful  and  finished 
technique  In  his  pocket! — the  other,  a  warning  never  to  judge  a 
story  by  what  it  is  not.  It  would  be  fatally  easy  to  write  "no 
plot"  across  such  a  manuscript  and  lose  It  forever. 

"A  Source  of  Irritation,"  also  by  Stacy  Aumonler,  published 
in  Tlie  Century  for  January,  1918,  is  a  delicious  bit  of  humor 
to  my  way  of  thinking.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  Aumonier's 
many-sided  mind  has  humor  and  gaiety,  too,  in  its  composition. 

"The  Wedding  Jest"  and  "Porcelain  Cups"  by  James  Branch 
Cabell,  printed  in  September,  1919,  and  November,  1919  seem 
to  me  very  lovely.  In  the  stodge  of  every-day  literary  expres- 
sion, such  delicacy  and  grace  are  rare  Indeed.  These  stories 
are  remarkable  for  that  almost  obsolete  quality,  "style." 

"The  Fat  of  the  Land,"  by  Anzia  Yeszierska,  a  study  of  the 
Russian  Jew  in  America  and  the  reaction  of  the  older  generation 
to  the  loud  prosperities  of  the  younger.  Is  excellent  work,  full 
of  the  intangible  quality  of  race  and  keen  In  Its  psychology.  It 
was  published  in  The  Century  for  August,  1919. 

One  wishes  to  mention,  too,  the  black  magic  of  "The  Black 
Key,"  by  Joseph  Hergesheimer,  the  rich  embroideries  of  H.  G. 
Dwight  and  Achmcd  Abdullah,  the  bold  portraiture  of  Harvey 
O'Higgins,  the  subtly  fine  work  of  Marjory  Morten.  Also  that 
exquisite  study  of  innocence,  "Red  and  White,"  by  Roland  Pert- 
wee;  and  Myla  Jo  Closser's  dog-story,  "At  the  Gate." 

It  is  impossible  for  any  magazine  to  sustain  regularly  the  level 
of  Its  best  fiction,  for  the  simple  reason  that  such  stories  do  not 
happen  frequently — would  there  were  more  of  them!  Those 
I  have  mentioned  are  among  the  best,  in  my  judgment,  that  The 
Century  has  published  for  several  years,  and  it  is  towards  work 
of  such  character  that  we  are  aiming. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  315 

I  take  it,  dear  Miss  Wick,  tbat  you  have  asked  me  to  charac- 
terize some  of  our  most  cherished  stories  in  order  to  show  by 
concrete  examples  the  kind  of  fiction  The  Century  wants;  and 
I  believe  that  you  are  right  in  thinking  this  plan  the  best  way  of 
saying  it. 

Sincerely    yours, 

Anne  Stoddard. 

The  Century  Magazine. 
353  Fourth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


COLLIER'S,  THE  NATIONAL  WEEKLY 

WHEN  a  writer  wants  to  please  an  editor,  the  surest  way 
is  to  forget  all  about  him.  The  editor  is  not  reading  the 
story  for  his  own  entertainment.  He  reads  with  only  one  idea 
in  mind:  "Will  this  story  appeal  to  all  kinds  of  people?  Is  it 
a  good  story?" 

An  editor  of  a  magazine  of  general  circulation  seldom  seeks 
one  particular  kind  of  story.  He  wants  the  best  stories  writ- 
ten.    The  quickest  way  to  his  favor  is  to  write  them. 

There  are  no  set  rules  for  accomplishing  this.  Only  a  few 
landmarks  are  on  the  road.  Know  your  subject.  Have  some- 
thing to  tell.     Be  sure  that  something  happens  in  the  story. 

If  nothing  happens,  if  there  is  no  action,  you  have  perhaps 
written  a  very  good  essay  or  a  very  convincing  argument — but 
yovi  will  not  be  able  to  sell  it  as  a  short  story. 

Remember  that  you  are  writing  a  short  story,  not  a  con- 
densed novel.  A  short  story,  once  started,  has  only  one  object — 
to  end  as  quickly  as  possible. 

There  are  only  two  people  who  can  infallibly  detect  padding 
in  a  stor}^.     One  is  yourself.     The  other  is  the  reader. 

It  pays,  always,  to  be  clean.  A  questionable  story  will  attract 
many  people — but  it  will  repel  more. 

Few  writers  succeed  in  being  convincing  when  they  wander 
into  fields  they  don't  know.  Every  man  collects  a  mass  of  in- 
formation concerning  the  road  over  which  he  has  traveled, 
and  the  people  he  met  on  the  way.  Use  this  information.  It  will 
furnish  all  the  short  stories  you  can  ever  write. 

Just  as  people  strive  for  "happy  endings"  in  their  own  affairs, 


3i6  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

so  they  like  them  in  stories  which  they  read  for  entertainment. 

.The  enduring  themes  for  short  stories  are  the  enduring 
themes  in  life  itself;  the  old  copybook  virtues,  like  self-sacrifice, 
courage,  generosity,    resourcefulness  and   faith. 

The  writer  succeeds  in  proportion  as  he  makes  his  reader 
eager  for  another  story  by  him.  Editors  have  ways  to  judge 
this  reaction.  Forget  the  editor,  and  what  you  think  he  wants. 
Write  directly  to  the  man  or  woman  who  is  going  to  buy  the 
magazine  and  read  your  story. 

Harford  Powell.,  Jr. 

Collier's,  The  National  Weekly. 
416  West  13  th  Street, 
New  York  City. 


AINSLEE'S  MAGAZINE 

AINSLEE'S  publishes  yearly  a  total  of  approximately  a  * 
hundred  and  twenty  short  stories  (from  5,000  to  8,000 
words  in  length),  twelve  novelettes  (from  20,000  to  30,000) 
and,  in  monthly  installments,  about  four  serials  (from  50,000 
to  70,000).  And,  to  cull  this  relatively  small  amount  of  fiction, 
innumerable  manuscripts  are  painstakingly  gone  over.  At  a 
rough  estimate,  erring  on  the  side  of  too  few  rather  than  too 
many,  ten  thousand  manuscripts  are  submitted  yearly  from 
various  sources  for  consideration  by  Ainslce's  Magazine.  Of 
these,  eight  thousand,  I  should  say,  are  absolutely  unsuited  to 
publication  anywhere,  while  the  remaining  number  are  perhaps 
creditable  enough,  but  have  been  sent  by  their  authors  or  the 
authors'  agents  to  the  wrong  magazine — which  brings  mc  to  the 
registering  of  a  simple,  but  curiously  disregarded,  bit  of  ad- 
vice to  those  whose  goal  is  writing  for  magazine  publication. 
Study  the  magazine  to  which  you  contemplate  submitting  ma- 
terial. After  all,  each  issue  of  a  magazine,  whatsoever  its 
character,  represents  the  nearest  approach  to  their  ideal  for  the 
publication,  which  the  editors  have  been  able,  at  the  time  to 
achieve,  and  should  therefore  constitute  a  fairly  good  working 
pattern  for  those  whose  stuff  is  to  be  "aimed  at"  that  magazine. 
A  rejection  slip  from  a  given  publication  is  just  as  apt  to  mean 
that  the  story,  albeit  distinctive,  does  not  fit  the  special  needs  of 
the  magazine  as  to  indicate  total  unfittedness  for  publication 
anywhere. 

Ainslce's  Magazine  aims  to  be  a  high-class,  clean,  distinctive 
fiction  magazine.  It  has  no  room  for,  nor  time  for,  the  frankly 
salacious,  or  "sexy."     It  is  looking  always  for  the  proverbial 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  317 

good  story,  well  told.  That  story  may  move  around  any  clean, 
healthy,  up-to-date  theme,  but  it  should  have  in  it,  preferably, 
woman  and  love  interest.  The  people  of  the  story  should  be 
human,  not  wooden.  They  should  talk  like  you  and  I  talk,  not 
like  Maria  Edgeworth's  people  "conversed."  And  the  tale 
itself  must  be  colorful.  If  a  story  is  to  have  any  holding  qual- 
ity whatever,  it  must  transfer  its  readers  to  the  scene  of  the 
action.  And  to  do  this,  the  thing  must  have  in  it  real  atmos- 
phere. Plot  basis,  then,  along  with  good  characterization,  at- 
mosphere, and  love  and  woman  interest  are  essentials  for  the 
typical   Ainslce's   story. 

We  like  to  think  that  stories  in  Ainslee's  Magazine,  though 
varied  in  character,  are  uniformly  good.  We  hesitate,  there- 
fore, to  talk  of  "better  and  best."  But,  by  way  of  illustration 
of  the  points  we  have  sought  to  make,  we  call  attention  to 
Marie  Van  Vorst's  "The  Week-End  Guest"  in  the  December 
issue  of  Jinslee's^-a  good  story  on  all  counts,  and  well  suited 
to  Ainslee's. 

Helen  L.  Lieder. 
Ainslee's  Magazine. 
Street  &  Smith  Corpokation, 
Seventh  Avenue  and  Fifteenth  Street, 
New  York  City. 


COSMOPOLITAN  MAGAZINE 

THE  first  essential  for  editing  a  popular  magazine  for 
Americans  is  that  the  editor  be  a  sane,  normal,  every-day 
American.     No  mystical  genius  is  required. 

He  is  merchandising  a  commodity  to  the  American  public. 
If  his  taste  is  the  taste  of  the  average  American,  and  he  puts 
within  the  covers  of  a  magazine  stories  which  he  has  enjoyed 
reading,  other  Americans  of  similar  taste  in  reading  will  buy 
his  magazine  in  quantities  sufficient  to  make  it  a  success. 

At  least,  that  is  the  theory  I  have  followed.  1  know  quite 
well  that  I  am  no  genius,  yet  I  have  seen  magazines  grow  under 
my  direction.  And  I  have  no  rule  for  buying  a  story  except  that 
it  must  be  sufficiently  interesting  and  sufficiently  well  told  to 
interest  me. 

All  sorts  of  stories  interest  me.  Some  time  ago,  for  the  satis- 
faction of  a  friend  of  mine,  I  named  the  ten  short  stories  which 
I  had  liked  best  of  all  those  I  had  published.  It  was  interesting 
even  to  me  to  see  how  they  varied.  The  ten  stories  were: 
Back  Pay  by  Fannie   Hurst;   Hassayampa  Jim  by   Peter   B. 


3i8  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

Kyne;  Kazan  by  James  Oliver  Curwood;  The  Story  I  Can't 
Write  by  Rupert  Hughes;  The  Last  Adventure  by  Frank 
R.  Adams;  Boston  Blackie's  Mary  by  Jack  Boyle;  The 
Juggler' by  Arthur  Springer;  The  Snide  by  Harris  Merton 
Lyon;  The  Ghost's  Story  by  Basil  King;  The  Dummy 
Chucker  by  Arthur  Somers  Roche.  That's  about  as  catholic 
a  list  as  I  can  imagine. 

"Back  Pay,"  "The  Snide"  and  "The  Last  Adventure"  might 
be  classified  as  "sex"  stories,  although  I  dislike  that  term.  "The 
Story  I  Can't  Write"  was  a  trick  story;  "Boston  Blackie's 
Mary"  was  a  prison  story;  "Hassayampa  Jim"  was  a  Western 
story;  "The  Dummy  Chucker"  was  an  O'Henry-ish  bit  of 
writing;  "Kazan"  was  a  dog  story;  "The  Ghost's  Story"  was  a 
story  of  the  supernatural  (it  was  the  story  from  which  Mr. 
King  later  built  his  photoplay  "Earthbound")  ;  "The  Juggler" 
was  a  character  study  with  an  extraordinary  twist  in  the  ending. 

No  two  of  these  stories  in  any  way  resembled  each  other. 
I  suppose  that's  because  I  believe  in  variety,  not  because  of  any 
rule  that  variety  makes  a  good  magazine,  but  because  my  taste 
in  reading  varies.  I  am  likely  this  evening  to  read  Cellini  for 
relaxation;  tomorrow  evening  to  read  Mark  Twain,  the  fol- 
lowing evening  to  read  De  Maupassant.  I  like  each  one  of 
them  while  I  am  reading  him,  but  I  don't  want  too  much  of 
any  one  of   them. 

That  probably  is  true  of  the  average  reader  of  American 
magazines.  He  has  his  favorite  authors  but  he  doesn't  want 
too  much  of  any  of  them.  I  think  Peter  B.  Kyne,  James  Oliver 
Curwood,  Fannie  Hurst,  Ben  Ames  Williams,  and  Frank  R. 
Adams  are  doing  the  best  work  of  any  magazine  writers  of 
to-day,  but  I  feel  quite  sure  that  a  magazine  filled  with  their 
work  and  only  their  work,  month  after  month,  would  become  a 
bore. 

Each  one  of  these  writers  is  a  friend  of  mine;  yet,  I  am  quite 
sure,  neither  they  nor  I  would  enjoy  talking  together  every 
evening  for  a  year.  I  find  that  I  am  the  average  American  in 
virtually  everything;  that  I  like  what  he  likes  without  stopping 
to  find  out  why;  and  I  believe,  too,  that  there  is  no  reading  too 
good  for  the  American  public — that  there  is  nothing  real  and 
worth  while  that  is  "over  his  head." 

Ray  Long. 
Cosmopohtan. 
Good  Housekeeping. 
Harper's  Bazar. 

Hearst's  Magazine.  ' 

119  West  40tli  Street, 
New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  319 


THE  COUNTRY  GENTLEMAN 

THE  Country  Gentleman  addresses  a  class  of  readers  whosv^ 
interests  are  keyed  to  country  life  and  the  industry  of  agri- 
culture. This  field  is  big  enough  to  include  more  than  half  of 
the  nation's  population.  Our  editorial  problem  is  not  one  of 
tying  in  narrowly  to  scientific  discussions  of  only  the  growing 
phases  of  farming  but  ranges  throughout  the  innumerable  busi- 
ness and  social  problems  of  the  American  country-side.  It  is 
our  aim  to  discuss  everything  that  should  help  to  broaden 
the  farmer's  vision  of  his  own  problems  and  also  of  all  inter- 
related problems  that  help  to  make  him  a  vital  factor  as  a  citi- 
zen of  the  United  States. 

In  presenting  fiction,  we  aim,  so  far  as  possible,  to  confine  the 
themes  to  country  life  and  the  open  spaces  of  the  world  out- 
doors. We  eschew  jazzily  up-to-date  urbanized  fiction,  sex 
novels,  the  eternal  triangle  and  the  purely  psychologic  story. 
Naturally  we  will  always  give  a  preference  to  fiction  related  to 
farming  by  first-class  writers  who  are  thoroughly  familiar  with 
farming. 

It  is  our  feeling  that  the  American  farmer  is  interested  in 
everything  that  has  any  contact  with  country  life.  Hunting 
and  fishing  and  outdoor  adventure  are  his  life-long  sports.  He 
has  a  deep  and  genuine  affection  for  animals  that  serve  him.  He 
manifests  a  very  live  interest  in  stories  that  deal  with  his  mar- 
keting problems,  and  his  ever-pressing  problem  of  financing  his 
business.  He  has  an  alert  interest  in  his  schools,  his  newspapers, 
in  local,  state  and  national  government.  He  enjoys  character 
studies  and  has  a  vastly  sharper  sense  of  humor  than  he  is  com- 
monly credited  with.  Likewise  he  is  a  shrewd  critic  and  quickly 
resents  the  sort  of  attempted  slurs  that  are  so  frequently  made 
upon  rural  folk  by  those  who  are  wholly  ignorant  of  farming. 

We  feel  justified  in  being  guided  by  several  successful  experi- 
ments we  have  made  with  our  fiction.  We  persuaded  I\Ir. 
Freeman  Tilden,  who  is  a  farmer  himself  and  thoroughly  fa- 
miliar with  all  phases  of  agriculture,  to  create  a  character  in 
Old  Man  Crabtrcc  who  might  be  defined  as  "a  Wallingford 
baiter."  Mr.  Crabtree  is  a  shrewd  retired  country  banker.  His 
experience  had  taught  him  all  the  tricks  of  "high  finance"  and 
he  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  the  specialists  in  shoddy  and 
sham  when  they  came  to  town.  In  the  climax  the  skinners 
were  invariably  neatly  flayed  by  Old  Man  Crabtree.  These 
stories  of  Mr.  Tilden  were  real  and  drew  in  a  continuous  flow 
of  favorable  comment. 


320  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

Zane  Grey  has  always  been  able  to  strike  a  responsive  chord 
with  the  lovers  of  outdoor  life,  of  whom  the  American  farmer 
is  undoubtedly  in  the  majority.  They  like  his  descriptions  of  the 
frontier  as  it  was  in  the  70's  and  they  seem  to  be  keen  for  his 
vigorous  characters,  notwithstanding  how  strenuous. 

We  like  good  dog  stories  of  the  sort  Albert  Payson  Terhune 
has  been  writing  for  us.  And  we  like  small  town  stories  when 
they  are  as  good  as  those  Tom  P.  Morgan  is  writing;  but  then, 
Tom  Morgan  lived  these  stories  for  fifty  years  before  he  began 
to  write  them. 

The  great  majority  of  our  contributors  have  specialized  in 
some  agricultural  pursuit.  Many  of  them  are  living  on  their 
farms  and  conducting  them  as  successful  business  enterprises. 
We  number  among  our  most  valued  contributors  the  heads  of 
leading  agricultural  colleges,  federal  and  state  government  ex- 
perts, graduates  of  agricultural  colleges  who  are  now  devoting 
all  their  time  to  writing,  county  agricultural  agents,  engineers 
who  are  specializing  in  agricultural  mechanics  and  so  on.  Among 
them  are  such  well-known  men  as  Eugene  Davenport,  Dean  of 
the  Illinois  College  of  Agriculture,  Herbert  Quick,  until  re- 
cently a  member  of  the  Federal  Farm  Loan  Board,  Frank  A. 
Waugh,  Professor  of  Horticulture,  Massachusetts  College  of 
Agriculture,  E.  V.  Wilcox  and  J.  Sidney  Cates,  for  many  years 
employed  as  farm  management  experts  by  the  United  States  De- 
partment of  Agriculture,  and  P.  S.  Lovejoy,  Professor  of  For- 
estry, University  of  Michigan. 

Such  writers  as  I  have  described  above  supply  the  bulk  of  the 
contents  of  The  Country  Gentleman  and  consequently  to  pre- 
serve a  balanced  ration,  as  a  livestock  feeder  would  say,  we 
try  our  utmost  to  obtain  the  sort  of  fiction  that  will  round  out 
the  ensemble. 


Barton  W.  Currie. 


The   Country   Gentleman. 
Curtis  Publishing  Co., 
Independence  Square, 
Philadelphia,  Pa. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  321 


THE  DELINEATOR 

WE  Delineator  editors  think  that  we  know  a  good  story 
when  we  sec  it;  vide  the  magazine.  Yet  no  issue  of  the 
magazine,  and  perhaps  no  six  issues,  contain  all  the  tjpes  of 
good  stories  that  we  like. 

The  average  intelligent  American  woman  or  girl,  in  the  home 
or  in  business,  is  the  person  we  have  chiefly  in  mind  when  choos- 
ing stories.  The  above-thc-average  woman,  of  course,  is  not 
forgotten. 

Nor  do  we  exclude  any  special  type  of  story.  We  prefer 
stories  that  will  interest  everyone — men,  women  and  high- 
brows— but  we  want  stories  for  women  first.  Other  things 
being  equal,  the  hero  should  be  a  woman.  We  think  we  have 
no  prejudices  and  we  certainly  have  no  rules. 

James  E.  Tower. 

The  Delineator. 

The  Butterick.  Publishing  Co., 
Spring  and  Macdougal  Streets, 
New  York  City. 


THE    DESIGNER 

BOTH  Arthur  Tomalin,  the  editor,  and  Emily  R.  Burt, 
his  assist  ant,  felt  hesitant  to  express  their  ideas 
on  what  constituted  a  good  and  therefore  a  desirable  story  for 
The  Designer.  They  both  made  much  of  the  fact  that  a  story  to 
appeal  to  women  readers  should  mirror  life  as  it  is,  and  as  it 
daily  afifects  the  great  body  of  both  men  and  women  who  are 
seeking  to  weather  its  problems  and  complexities.  Sympathy 
and  understanding  are  perhaps  the  two  qualities  upon  which 
they  put  greatest  stress. 

The  Designer. 

The  Butterick  Publishing  Co. 

12  Vandam  Street, 

New  York  City. 


322  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


THE  DIAL 

I  DO  NOT  believe  it  is  possible  to  formulate  any  laws  in 
accordance  with  which  one  can  judge  the  merit  of  fiction 
any  more  than  it  is  possible  to  formulate  such  laws  for  the 
judgment  of  any  other  aesthetic  object.  In  deciding  whether  or 
not  we  accept  for  publication  in  The  Dial  a  story  submitted  to 
us  we  are  guided  almost  wholly  by  the  intensity  of  the  impres- 
sion made  upon  us  by  that  story.  Of  course  the  means  by 
which  the  author  attains  this  intensity  are  very  varied  and  of 
course  each  manner  of  attack  presupposes  its  own  technique. 
However,  it  would  be  inappropriate  for  me  in  this  letter  to 
endeavour  to  sketch  out  my  personal  opinion  of  what  would  be 
the  technique  of  any  particular  type  of  story. 

But  of  course  all  stories,  whatever  their  character,  depend  in 
part  for  their  intensity  upon  the  delicacy  of  the  writer's  per- 
ception of  verbal  values  as  well  as  upon  the  delicacy  of  his  per- 
ception of  character  and  environment.  And  of  course  prose 
rhythms  are  quite  as  important  as  those  in  verse. 

Perhaps  I  might  add  that  my  personal  feeling  is  that  dialogue 
is  much  over-done  in  American  fiction  of  to-day  and  that  the 
best  writers  depend  upon  it  merely  to   relieve  pure  narrative. 

I  regard  fiction  as  quite  as  pure  an  art  as  poetry  or  as  music 
and  therefore  give  no  preference  to  one  story  because  it  deline-i 
ates  real  life  rather  than  Ultima  Thule. 

I  am  sorry  I  am  not  able  to  go  into  the  subject  more  thor- 
oughly and  more  satisfactorily. 


ScoFiELD  Thayer. 


The  Dial. 

152  West  13th  Street, 

New  York  City. 


DETECTIVE  STORY  MAGAZINE 

DETECTIVE  STORY  MAGAZINE  is  a  weekly  publica- 
tion. It  is  therefore  a  large  market,  and  is  constantly 
in  need  of  short  stories  of  2,500  to  6,000  or  7,000  words, 
novelettes  of  12,000  or  15,000,  and  novels  of  25,000  words. 
Serials  should  run  from  36,000  to  100,000  words  in  length,  and 
break  up  approximately  in  about  12,000  word  installments. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  323 

It  most  not  be  deduced  that  only  detective  stories  are  needed 
for  this  publication.  When  one  speaks  of  a  detective  story  we 
think  of  a  narrative  which  begins  viath  the  murder  of  somebody, 
the  police  being  called  in,  and  then  the  efforts  of  the  police  or 
the  efforts  of  some  wise  investigator  of  crime  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery of  who  killed  the  deceased.  Of  course,  this  story  with 
variations — if  it  is  well  done — is  always  acceptable.  While  we 
are  dealing  with  it  we  might  say  that,  in  general,  such  stories 
are  divided  into  two  types,  one  in  which  the  method  is  the  pre- 
dominati.'ig  theme,  and  the  other  in  which  the  motive  is  played 
up  prominently.  The  first  type  of  story  suggests  the  puzzle. 
There  is  always  a  type  of  mind  which  revels  in  puzzles.  A 
person  mysteriously  disappears  from  a  room,  and  after  wading 
through  60,000  or  70,000  words,  mostly  questions  and  answers, 
we  learn  that  the  method  of  removing  the  body  was  through,  we 
will  say,  the  fireplace,  which  was  on  hinges.  Of  course,  this 
is  the  easiest  type  of  detective  story  to  write,  and,  as  is  quite 
obvious,  it  is  written  backwards.  We  mean  by  that,  an  author 
first  evolves  an  ingenious  method  of  killing  some  one,  or  of 
removing  some  one,  and  then  builds  about  this  a  story,  leaving 
the  disclosure  of  the  method  of  killing  or  removal  to  the  end 
of  the  story.  We  think  a  far  better  way  to  do  this  story,  and  a 
way  that  interests  more  people,  is  to  have  the  motive  the  pre- 
dominating feature.  The  method  by  which,  we  will  say,  a  A'oung 
woman  disappears,  either  through  her  own  efforts  or  through 
the  efforts  of  others,  is  interesting  enough  in  its  way,  but  that 
which  interests  the  public  generally,  and  her  friends  in  particu- 
lar, is  not  how  she  disappeared,  so  much  as  why  she  disappeared. 

Now  to  take  up  the  other  types  of  stories  that  Detective 
Story  Magazine  is  interested  in:  We  are  glad  to  consider  any 
story  into  which  crime  enters.  When  one  stops  to  consider  a 
moment,  one  must  realize  how  important  a  feature  crime  is  in 
the  life  of  every  person.  In  using  the  word  crime,  we  mean 
deception  in  any  fdrm.  All  persons  constantly  resort  to  some 
tj'pes  of  deception.  Thus  the  crime  story,  so  called,  lends  itself 
to  an  infinite  variety  of  situations  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific.  For  instance,  in  almost  every  family  there  is  the  urge 
for  money,  in  many  for  the  bare  necessities  of  life,  while  in 
others  simply  for  more  luxury.  Thus  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
persons  are  being  sorely  tempted  every  day  to  deceive.  The 
stories  of  their  temptations  cannot  h.elp,  if  well  told,  but  be 
interesting.  Above  all  things  in  a  detective  story  or  a  crime 
story,  the  narrative  must  get  on,  move  along.  While  character 
work  is  much  desired,  it  is  demanded  that  this  type  of  story 
have  suspense  and  b"  written  in  such  a  way  that  one  is  urged  on 


324  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

from  page  to  page  to  see  what  is  going  to  happen  next.  While 
this  can  be  accomplished  without  dramatic  situations  and  un- 
expected happenings  occurring  every  so  often,  it  is  usually  found 
necessary  to  resort  to  these  methods  for  keeping  up  interest. 
Authors  must  not  fall  into  the  common  mistake,  however,  of 
feeling  that  when  we  say  a  story  should  get  on  we  simply  mean 
that  there  should  be  action,  physical  movement  in  it.  Running 
up  and  down  stairs  alone  does  not  make  for  excitement,  but  very 
often  does  make  for  confusion.  Also,  saying  that  people  are 
excited  or  nervous  or  in  fear  does  not  interest  the  reader  very 
much.  The  author  must  show  by  the  actions  of  his  characters 
that  they  are  excited  or  frightened.  A  crime  story,  then,  is  one 
which  gets  on,  has  plenty  of  strong  situations,  and  in  which  the 
motive,  conflict,  is  the  dominating  feature.  It  is,  perhaps, 
needless  to  add  that  in  a  crime  story  the  author  must  be  fair 
to  his  readers — that  is,  he  must  not  explain  the  mystery  by  in- 
troducing a  reason  for  the  commission  of  the  crime  of  which 
the  reader  has  not  been  made  aware. 

F.  E.  Blackwell. 

Detective  Story  Magazine. 
Street  and  Smith, 
79  Seventh  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


EVERYBODY'S    MAGAZINE 

THAT  word  "Everybody's"  is  the  watchword  of  Everybody's 
fiction.  And  what  it  means  is  simply  that  in  choosing 
stories  the  editors  of  Everybody's  bear  in  mind  an  audience  of 
"regular  folks,"  with  a  large  variety  of  tastes  and  with  tastes 
for  different  things  at  different  times.  We  are  not  thinking 
specifically  of  business  men.  Nor  specifically  of  professional 
men.  Nor  of  women  merely  as  club  members.  Nor  of  women 
merely  as  housewives.  We  are  thinking  of  the  splendid  average 
of  folks,  with  normal  human  interests  and  normal  human  emo- 
tions. And  we  take  stories  with  a  view  to  offering  in  each  num- 
ber a  well-balanced  ration  of  these  interests  and  emotions, 
stories  of  love,  adventure,  business,  sentiment,  children,  humor, 
sport;  of  city  and  country;  of  rich  and  poor. 

The  only  types  of  stories  that  are  barred  are  those  that  lack 
wide  contact  with  the  average  human  experience — that  depict 
fantastic  or  morbid  or  unreal  motives  or  isolated  emotional  re- 
actions.    This   does   not  necessarily   bar    an   occasional   use   of 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  325 

morbid  experience,  soundly  based — such  as  "The  Wrists  on  the 
Door,"  by  Horace  Fish,  a  horror  story,  strange  and  fantastic 
in  atmosphere,  with  a  big  truth  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

It  is  our  guess  that  the  largest  group  of  people  reads 
for  sheer  entertainment,  and  with  two  motives — unconscious, 
perhaps;  either  to  gain  a  heightened  sense  of  their  own  situa- 
tions, their  own  personalities  through  reading  stories  of  their 
own  sort  of  life;  or  to  be  transported  by  reading  as  by  magic 
from  their  own  environment  into  another  world.  And  we  have 
a  notion  that,  as  the  worry  and  perplexity  of  life  increase,  the 
eagerness  to  gain  escape  through  reading  increases  too.  That 
is  why  Everybody's  has  stressed  stories  of  adventurous  action — 
such  as  Charles  Saxby's  "In  Camera,"  Clarence  B.  Kelland's 
"Cheese  in  the  Trap,"  David  Churchill's  "Igor's  Trail,"  Edison 
Marshall's  "The  Elephant  Remembers."  That  is  the  reason 
for  an  intensification  of  the  search  for  humor — for  Dorothy 
De  Jagers'  cheerful  New  York  stories  and  for  Samuel  Hopkins 
Adams'  "Cab  Sir?"  reprinted  in  this  volume  as  a  story  on  which 
Everybody's  readers  expressed  themselves  with  cordial  approval. 

At  the  same  time — paradoxical  as  it  may  seem — Everybody's 
has  not  barred  war  stories.  Wc  do  not  believe  it  is  possible  to 
ask  real  writers  to  shut  the  doors  on  the  most  tremendous  ex- 
perience of  their  lives — and  still  do  their  best  work.  We  hold 
a  high  standard  for  war  stories,  but  the  story  itself  is  the  test 
and  such  a  piece  of  work  as  James  Hopper's  "The  Scoop  of 
Charles  Hamilton  Potts"  goes  over  as  easily  as  a  love  idyl. 

As  for  length,  there  is  no  rigid  requirement.  Short  stories 
are  preferred,  in  order  to  make  possible  the  maximum  of  variety 
in  each  number,  but  ten  thousand  words  won't  kill  a  story  of  our 
sort  that  is  worth — ten  thousand  words. 

Cleanness  is  a  requisite — cleanness  without  priggishness  or 
sentimental  dishonesty ;  open-eyed  wholesomcness  that  strength- 
ens one's  faith  in  human  nature. 


Virginia  Roderick. 


Everybody's  Magazine. 
Spring  and  Macdougal  Streets, 
New  York  City. 


326  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


FARM  AND  FIRESIDE 

'E  want  good  fiction  for  Farm  and  Fireside,  and  we  will 
pay  good  money  for  it.  The  only  kind  we  don't  want  is 
the  extreme  stuff — sexy-pink-tea  and  blood-and-thunder.  We 
don't  demand  a  farm  setting.  Aside  from  that,  we  have  no 
specifications.     Just  one  request: 

If  you  are  not  interested  in  selling  your  best  stories  to  a  publi- 
cation that  is  made  for  men  and  women  who  farm,  please  do  not 
waste  your  postage  and  our  time. 

As  to  length — 3,000  to  5,000  words  for  short  stories,  and  up 
to  10,000  for  two-part,  and  15,000  for  three-part  serials. 

We  pay  on  acceptance,  price  to  fit  quality;  no  limit. 

Address  Editor,  Far 711  and  Fireside,  381  Fourth  Avenue,  New 
York  City. 


George  Martin. 


Faryn  and  Fireside. 

The  Crowell  Publishing  Co., 

381    Fourth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


THE  FORUM 

THE  FORUM  is  not  publishing  fiction.     My  own  personal 
view,    however,    is    that    a    serious    magazine    should    print 
some  fiction,  and  in  the  course  of  time  The  Forum  will. 

If  I  should  be  the  one  selecting  the  fiction  by  that  time,   I 
would  look  for  intelligence  and  imagination. 


George  Henry  Payne. 


The  Forum. 

118  East  28th  Street, 

New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  327 


HARPER'S  MAGAZINE 

HARPER'S  MAGAZINE  is  constantly  seeking  the  work 
of  new  writers,  and  it  probabh'  publishes  more  stories  by 
hitherto  unknown  writers  than  any  other  fiction  periodical  of 
reputable  standing. 

Harper's  Magazine  has  no  editorial  prejudices,  and  does  not 
ask  its  contributors  to  make  their  work  conform  to  any  fixed 
or  arbitrary  specifications.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  "Harper 
type"  of  story.  Any  story  is  acceptable  which  in  dignity  of  con- 
ception and  quality  of  workmanship  has  real  value,  provided  it 
is  also  interesting. 

Stories  of  a  youthful  turn,  with  a  glimmer  of  humor,  are 
particularly  desired.  Three  thousand  to  seven  thousand  words 
is  the  preferred  length. 


Lee  Foster  Hartman. 


Harper's  Magazine. 
Franklin  Square, 
New  York  City. 


JUDGE 

JUDGE'S  need  is  for  honest-to-goodness  humor,  the  short 
story  (under  a  thousand  words)  that  forces  a  healthy 
chuckle,  the  poem  that  tickles  the  fancy  and  stirs  the  risibles 
(whatever  they  are)  and  the  good  old-fashioned  joke  with  a 
modern  setting  and  a  sophisticated  idea.  Clean  fun,  smart  fun, 
spontaneous  fun  expressed  in  any  literary  form  will  be  accept- 
able and  paid  for  generously. 

Judge's  circulation  is  booming;  that  is  happening  only  because 
this  magazine  is  human,  modern,  entertaining,  American  and 
very  often  genuinely  humorous. 

Perriton  Maxwell. 

Judge. 

225  Fif:h  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


328  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

LESLIE'S 

AT  present  a  great  number  of  Americans,  both  men  and 
women,  arc  seriously  interested  in  business  conditions  and 
its  problems.  For  this  reason  when  we  decided  to  limit  our 
publishing  to  one  type  of  story — we  publish  but  one  story  a 
week,  and  that  of  limited  length — we  decided  for  the  time  being 
to  publish  only  business  stories.  We  prefer  those  of  construc- 
tive turn  or  of  such  dramatic  intensity  that  interest  is  com- 
pelled. We  do  not  want  love  stories  in  a  business  setting.  We 
do  occasionally  accept  the  humorous  story,  as  often  a  writer 
in  this  guise  can  present  a  more  fundamental  truth  or  give  a 
better  picture  of  actual  conditions  than  could  be  projected  in 
any  other  way. 

In  asking  for  business  stories  we  do  not  feel  that  we  are  lim- 
iting the  writer.  American  business  is  so  broad  in  scope,  so 
diversified  in  character,  so  tied  up  with  the  every  day  life  of 
all  of  us,  it  has  so  many  facets  of  interest,  so  many  angles  of 
approach  that  any  one  who  writes  can  surely  produce  a  busi- 
ness story  if  he  or  she  will.  A  good  business  story  is  bound 
to  be  an  interesting  story,  and  interest  to  my  mind  is  after  all 
the  aim  and  end  of  all  fiction  writing. 

Perriton  Maxwell. 

Leslie's. 

225   Fifth  Avenue, 

New  York  City. 

LIFE 

LIFE'S  principal  need  is  humor.  After  humor  comes  senti- 
ment, and  after  sentiment,  satire.  Life  will  consider  origi- 
nal jokes,  short  (very  short)  dialogues,  epigrams,  epigram- 
matical  comments,  light  verse  and  manuscripts  up  to  500  words 
on  subjects  of  topical  or  news  interest  containing  these  three 
elements  singly  or  in  combination.  Before  submitting,  it  is 
best  to  make  a  comprehensive  study  of  what  is  printed  in  the 
magazine  and  to  model  the  contribution  on  similar  lines.  By 
reason  of  the  seeming  simplicity  of  its  contents.  Life  is  con- 
stantly receiving  contributions  which  make  no  pretense  at  lit- 
erary preparation  and  are  therefore  unavailable. 

Henry  William  Hanemann. 
Life. 

17  West  31st  Street, 
New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  329 

LIVE  STORIES 

LIVE  STORIES  is  not  afraid  of  ideas.  Outside  of  humor, 
it  insists  upon  something  more  than  just  a  good  story. 
Humor,  of  course,  is  more  than  humor  only  when  handled  by 
a  master.  There  are  not  many  masters  of  humor  in  America; 
in  fact,  neither  American  writers  nor  readers  have  a  real  sense 
of  humor.  They  have,  mostly,  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous 
and  a  really  brilliant  appreciation  of  Vv'it.  Doubtless  the  diffi- 
culty every  editor  experiences  in  getting  good  humorous  stories 
is  thus  explained.  It  also  accounts  for  Live  Stories'  belief  that 
it  is  useless  to  look  for  an  idea  in  humorous  contributions. 
"There  ain't  no  such  animal"  in  America,  and  if  there  were  it 
is  doubtful  if  the  public  would  appreciate  it. 

In  the  list  of  short  stories  memorable,  one  finds  that  each  is 
based  on  an  idea;  that  is,  each  is  more  than  a  story.  "The  Fall 
of  The  House  of  Usher,"  "They,"  "The  Man  Without  a 
Country,"  "Lear  of  the  Steppes,"  "A  Bit  of  String,"  are  strik- 
ing examples  that  come  readily  to  mind.  The  list  could  be  ex- 
tended to  embrace  all  of  the  great  short  stories.  O.  Henry, 
you  will  notice,  is  not  represented  here.  Indeed,  the  bulk  of 
O.  Henry's  stories  are  without  ideas.  Have  you  never  noticed 
that  it  is  difficult  to  remember  an  O.  Henry  story?  The  ex- 
planation lies  in  the  fact  that  they  are  just  stories — delightful, 
captivating,  what  you  will — but  they  are  not  intense,  compel- 
ling an  undivided  concentration. 

Live  Stories  has,  deliberately,  gone  in  for  ideas.  It  was  this 
policy  that  led  it  to  publish  Thomas  Grant  Springer's,  "The 
Blood  of  the  Dragon,"  a  story  that  won  honorable  mention  by 
the  O.  Henry  Memorial  Commiitee  of  the  Society  of  Arts  and 
Sciences.  "The  Blood  of  the  Dragon"  was  rejected  by  a  large 
number  of  New  York  editors  who,  doubtless,  were  entirely 
right  in  their  position.  Yet  this  study  of  the  Chinese  character 
will  be  remembered  long  after  the  stories  those  editors  published 
are  forgotten. 

To  entertain  and  more,  that  is  the  policy  of  Live  Stories.  It 
does  not  want  trick  stories;  it  doesn't  want  a  fabricated  and 
artificial  drama;  it  does  not  want  action  simply  for  action;  it 
does  not  want  weeping  authors.  It  does  want  the  tenseness 
incident  to  an  inevitable  situation.  It  wants  drama,  happy  or 
tragic,  based  upon  a  fundamental  idea.  In  short.  Live  Stories 
wants  ideas,  clearly,  forcibly,  dramatically  evolved. 

Grove  Wilson. 

Live  Stories. 

The  New  Fiction  Publishing  Company, 

35-37  West  Thirty-ninth  Street,  New  York  City. 


330  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


McCALL'S  MAGAZINE 

'cCALL'S  finds  it  hard  to  specify  its  standards  of  the  per- 
fect McCall  story,  because  we  believe  a  magazine  should 
cultivate  a  diversity  of  story  types.  A  publication  with  a  circu- 
lation of  over  one  million  and  a  half,  read  by  people  scattered 
all  over  the  United  States,  should  carefully  select  from  a  wide 
field. 

In  a  short  story,  we  demand  first,  perhaps  that  it  be  a  story; 
that  it  tell  itself  convincingly,  and  interestingly,  with  its  due 
measure  of  plot,  characterization  and  charm  of  style.  Honesty 
and  truthfulness  in  theme  and  treatment  are  essential.  Though 
we  are  opposed  to  the  sentimental  and  saccharine  tale  which  has 
been  the  accepted  convention  for  the  woman's  magazine,  we  be- 
lieve in  romance  and  adventure  and  glamour.  Life  is  colored 
with  those  three  things,  and  a  story  is  either  dull  or  fantastic 
unless  it  bear  relation  to  life. 

Although  McCall's  is  a  woman's  magazine,  we  believe  there 
is  no  sex  in  reading,  that  a  woman  is  not  necessarily  interested 
in  the  old  conventionally  accepted  story  in  which  gilded  heroes 
and  heroines  pranced  through  a  hectic  and  golden  existence,  in 
which  the  heroine's  name  was  always  Gwen  or  Violet,  in  which 
the  desired  male  prize  was  always  married  off  to  the  poor  but 
noble  girl  at  the  consummating  altar.  Nor  need  all  women's 
magazine  stories  have  to  do  with  the  abuse  of  the  sacrificial 
mother  or  the  efforts  of  an  orphan  stenographer  alone  in  a  great 
city.  Love  and  money  and  fame  may  be  fundamental  pillars  of 
plots,  as  of  life;  but  to-day's  v/oman,  even  as  to-day's  flapper,  de- 
mands more  than  the  sentimental  narration  of  their  inter- 
twinings. 

As  for  the  young  author,  we  welcome  him — or  her.  The 
famous  and  the  arrived  have  their  place,  but  the  world  is  ever 
to  the  oncoming.  If  there  is  a  germ  of  a  story  in  any  neophyte's 
contribution,  McCall's  is  only  too  glad  to  throw  all  its  energies 
into  framing  for  it  a  more  effective  setting. 


Bessie  Beatty. 


McCall's  Magazine. 

236-250  West  Thirty-seventh  Street, 

New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  331 


McCLURE'S  MAGAZINE 

IT  is  difficult  to  frame  rigidly  the  deciding  factors  in  selecting 
fiction  for  a  magazine  that  is  planned  for  the  general  reading 
public.  Any  reply  that  I  may  make  must  be  human  rather  than 
formal. 

You  see,  the  work  of  buying  for  and  making  a  magazine  is  a 
firing  line  job.  Tactics  and  strategy  go  into  preparation  for  the 
battle,  but  in  the  strife  one  does  many  things  because  they  have 
to  be  done. 

Reduced  to  practicality,   I  buy  what  I   want  when   I   get  it. 

You  will  say,  to  tell  you  what  I  want,  since  I  know  it.  But 
if  I  did,  you  would  be  misled,  for  all  wants  are  not  constant. 

Fundamentals,  of  course,  are,  but  they  are  rather  the  funda- 
mentals of  art — an  idea  to  convey,  a  picture  to  paint,  in  short, 
creation.  A  creative  thought  first,  then  an  object  modeled  with 
the  tools  of  craftsmanship.  Finally,  a  composition  (in  the  paint- 
ing rather  than  the  writing  sense)  that,  when  looked  at  from 
points  in  a  sense  afar,  tells  u'hat  the  creator  wants  to  tell. 

I  am  trying  here,  perhaps  indistinctly,  to  state  that  said  cre- 
ator has  to  build  for  perspective.  He  has  to  make  things,  ac- 
tions and  persons  seem  real.  For  example,  the  actor  is  made  up 
for  the  appearance  he  will  make  to  you  sitting  on  the  other  side 
of  the  footlights.  He  does  not  strive,  in  the  laying  on  of  paint, 
for  the  effect  on  you  standing  at  his  side,  but  on  you  more 
remote.  Contrariwise,  if  he  did  not  make  up,  he  would  seem 
to  you  in  that  audience  as  unreal,  and  unnatural. 

There  is  a  good  lesson  in  this  for  the  young  writer,  if  I  can 
get  it  over. 

It  is  the  distinction  between  crude  photographic  reality  and 
the  art  of  reality;  it  is  the  proof  of  the  uselcssness  of  writing 
from  life  alone,  without  the  craft  of  employing  materials  so 
that  the  reader  (the  audience  of  the  theatre)  sees  the  picture 
not  only  of  the  actuality  of  life,  but  of  the  life  the  author  meant 
that  he  should  see. 

Not  that  the  author  departs  from  the  r  le  of  observer  and 
picture  maker.  The  artist  is  indeed  the  mirror  of  nature.  That 
is  his  function — high   and  chosen. 

He  has  that  which  is  not  given  to  us  of  colder  blood  and 
thought.  His  temperature  is  higher,  he  sees  often  what  we  do 
not  see.  Creation  is  fever,  let  us  say,  but  after  creation  comes 
craft,  and  that  is  as  cold  and  critical  and  laborious  as  creation 
is  hot. 


332  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

The  actor  must  be  master  of  himself,  tiniest  muscle  of  the 
finger  and  act  of  the  mind,  to  portray  the  frenzy  of  emotion. 
The  writer  mu§t  have  the  craft  to  weave  texture  in  sentence 
and  word,  to  get  clarity  and  simplicity,  to  lay  tone  on  tone  of 
character  lineament,  all  the  while  keeping  plot  a-moving  and 
reader  interest  unfaltering.  No  work  can  be  harder  than  this — 
even  where  talent  has  been  granted,  and  craftsmanship  acquired. 

Personally,  I  do  not  believe  that  the  untalented  (persons  with- 
out creative  imagination)  should  be  encouraged  to  study  the 
mechanics  of  fiction  technique.  The  waste  is  in  energy  which 
might  win  success  in  some  other  field. 

Markets  may  prove  to  be  lower  than  the  ideals  of  writers, 
but  that  should  be  the  fault  of  the  markets  and  not  of  the 
writers.  Nor  will  this  course  of  faithfulness  to  ideals  fail  in 
recompense  in  one  form  or  another,  for  this  is  the  law: 

The  best  art  has  the  best  chance  of  popularity  and  the  only 
chance  of  long  life. 

Recognition  often  is  delayed,  but  won  in  time,  generally  in 
due  time. 

Because,  for  one  thing,  it  drives  through  discouragement.  If 
the  talent  is  not  hardy  enough  to  do  so,  the  chances  are  that  it  is 
not  sufficiently  virile  to  deserve  the  crown. 

In  general,  money  gainful  success  comes  to  the  talented  Ameri- 
can writer  too  soon  if  not  too  easily.  If  one  works  harder  than 
ever  after  success  has  come,  no  harm  is  done.  And  if  one  stops 
working,  success  passes.  So  the  situation,  after  all,  contains  its 
own  remedy. 

You  ask  me  finally,  if  I  have  any  suggestion  as  to  what 
writers  should  send  to  a  particular  magazine.  I  have  noticed 
for  years,  that  writers  study  a  magazine  with  the  aim  of  send- 
ing it  material  of  the  order  of  which  it  appears  to  publish  most. 
For  convenience,  wc  will  call  this  a  magazine  major.  1  am  quite 
sure  the  selling  method  is  wrong,  and  that  magazines  should  be 
studied  for  their  minors  instead.  It  stands  to  reason  that  editors 
will  have  more  difficulty  in  supplying  the  minor  balances.  Mind, 
I  do  not  say  the  lesser,  for  1  am  referring  to  quantity,  not 
quality. 

You  see,  a  general  magazine  circulation  may  be  likened  to  a 
circle,  divided  into  segments.  No  one  unit  of  contents  will 
have  appeal  for  the  whole  circle.  That  would  be  universality, 
practically  impossible  to  achieve.  But  it  can  be  aimed  at.  Cer- 
tain basic  factors  are  known.  One  kind  of  material  can  be  de- 
pended upon  for  a  larger  segment  than  another.  The  smaller 
segments,  however,  arc  no  less  essential,  and  more  effort  will 
have  to  be  used  to  fill  them  than  will  be  used   to  supply  the 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  333 

largest  segment.  Circulation  comes  from  adding  interest  to 
interest — up  to  the  point  of  harmony.  Beyond,  of  course,  lies 
confusion,  but  the  problem  of  how  far  to  go  and  when  to  stop 
is  an  editor's,  not  a  writer's.  It  is  sufficient  for  a  writer  to  be 
able  to  know  how  to  take  market  advantage  of  an  editor's  need 
of  maximum  circulation  pull  from  the  smaller  as  well  as  the 
larger  segments  of  the  circle. 

Edgar  Sisson. 

McClure's  Magazine. 

25  West  Forty-fourth  Street, 

New  York  City. 


METROPOLITAN 

IN  choosing  fiction  for  a  popular  magazine  one  must  be  sure 
first  of  all  that  the  story  will  appeal  to  a  large  audience  of 
readers.  It  must  have  the  essential  quality  of  holding  the  atten- 
tion. A  story  which  the  Editor  has  to  make  an  effort  to  read 
is  not  very  likely  to  receive  much  attention  from  any  one  else. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  a  story,  through  qualities  of  form,  con- 
struction, style  and  the  needed  element  of  suspense,  literally  car- 
ries one  along  from  page  to  page,  it  has  at  least  the  first  essential 
quality  of  a  popular  magazine  story. 

Every  Editor,  of  course,  will  tell  you  this.  We  shall  not 
differ  a  great  deal,  either,  1  imagine,  in  what  we  say  afterward. 
Every  Editor  likes  dramatic  suspense,  every  Editor  likes  natur- 
alness and  humor  in  the  characters  when  he  can  get  it. 

But  when  you  apply  yourself  to  the  practical  task  of  selecting 
manuscripts  for  your  own  publication  you  do  consciously  or  un- 
consciously evolve  a  set  of  rules  by  which  the  final  verdict  of 
yes  or  no  is  governed.  We  buy  eight  or  ten  short  stories  a 
month  for  the  Metropolitan  in  addition  to  an  occasional  serial. 
Naturally  these  stories  are  not  to  be  all  of  one  kind.  1  should 
say,  however,  that  there  is  a  sort  of  category  into  which  we 
prefer  our  stories  to  fall.  It  is  perhaps  somewhat  the  same  with 
magazine  editors  as  with  other  persons  such  as  painters  and 
musicians  who  manifest  their  tastes  more  directly-wc  go  in  for 
very  different  degrees  of  intensity  in  the  portrayal  of  a  life,  and 
so  on.  I  can  think  of  Editors  who  pin  their  faith,  because  they 
like  it,  to  clever,  thin,  mauvish  specimens  of  the  art  of  fiction ; 
of  others  who  love  the  middle  register  of  common  life;  and  still 
others  who  go  in   for  the  heights   and  depths   of  emotion,   the 


334  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

passionate  crises  which  after  all  do  enter  into  the  lives  of  prac- 
tically all  people.  There  are  many  ways  of  interesting  the 
public;  our  way  in  the  Metropolitan  lies  a  good  deal  in  the 
field  last  mentioned.  We  believe  in  dynamic  fiction,  we  like  it 
so  much  that  we  would  rather  have  a  crudely  done  but  expres- 
sive story  from  a  new  hand  than  a  manufactured,  tepid  yarn 
from  the  best  of  practiced  writers.  Manufactured  stuff  in  gen- 
eral we  abhor,  although  we  do  not  fail  to  see  that  many  of  our 
contemporaries  do  quite  well  with  it.  But  stop,  there  is  a  kind 
of  manufactured  story  which  we  welcome;  detective  stories, 
night  life  adventures,  the  thriller  which  produces  a  murder  of 
the  unpopular  character  and  skilful  escape  of  the  hero, — we  like 
these  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  whole  thing  is  a  frame.  Of 
this  class  of  stories  it  is  to  be  said  that  they  resemble  a  play 
in  which  you  take  for  granted  a  good  deal  of  unreality  without 
which  the  thing  could  not  take  place  at  all,  and  lend  yourself 
to  the  breathless  character  of  the  performance. 

We  care  nothing  about  happy  or  unhappy  endings.  Of  course 
when  the  only  thing  a  writer  really  has  to  offer  you  as  a  re- 
ward for  reading  a  lot  of  pages  is  a  peculiarly  lugubrious  finish 
we  decline  to  be  enthusiastic.  But  there  are  many  stories  which 
are  far  better  for  having  sad  endings.  And  if  we  think  so  we 
are  confident  that  the  public,  which  is  also  human,  thinks  so  too. 
But  there  is  one  thing  we  have  strong  convictions  about ; 
namely,  length.  Ten  years  ago  five  thousand  words  was  a 
good  length  for  a  short  story.  Since  that  time,  unhappily, 
writers  have  become  so  proficient  on  the  typewriter,  that  they 
pour  out  eight,  ten  and  tvv-elve  thousand  words  without  being 
able  to  stop.  In  most  cases  this  is  utterly  unnecessary  and 
spoils  the  performance  for  any  purpose  except  filling  space,  or 
encouraging  a  siesta  on  the  part  of  the  reader.  Conditions  of 
magazine  publication  have  encouraged  authors  to  write  at  length 
instead  of  compressing  and  intensifying  their  work.  We  do  not 
hold  with  this  school.  For  the  Metropolitan  we  want  short 
stories — the  shorter  the  better,  provided  everything  is  put  in 
that  should  be.  No  master  of  the  short  story  has  made  a  prac- 
tice of  writing  the  long,  ungainly  things  which  are  commonly 
produced  nowadays.  Foe  didn't.  Maupassant  didn't.  O.  Henry 
and  Kipling  didn't.  It  is  not  to  the  point  to  argue  that  all  of 
these  men  wrote  at  times  lengthy  tales;  when  they  did  there 
was  some  excuse  for  it;  but  their  finest  work  was  always  short. 
When  we  begin  to  receive  in  our  office  a  flood  of  manuscripts 
ranging  from  two  to  five  thousand  words,  then  we  shall  think 
a  new  inspiration  has  come  to  the  great  benefit  of  the  whole 
writing  profession. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  335 

In  this  connection  note  the  work  of  Booth  Tarkington.  The 
best  short  stories  we  have  ever  published  came  from  his  pen 
and  they  filled  no  more  than  from  fifteen  to  twenty  pages  of 
typewritten  paper.  There  is  a  man  who  builds  up  a  short  story 
piece  by  piece,  every  word,  every  sentence  counts.  And  this 
reminds  us  to  say  that  the  William  Sylvanus  Baxter  stories 
may  not  be  supposed  to  fall  quite  in  the  circle  which  we  drew  a 
little  way  above  to  mark  our  special  Metropolitan  field.  But 
they  do.  Intense  reality  may  quite  as  readily,  though  by  no 
means  so  easily,  appear  in  the  form  of  humor  as  along  lines  of 
emotional  stress.  Moreover,  the  great  humanity  and  genius  of 
Booth  Tarkington  place  him  beyond  the  need  of  classification  of 
any  sort.  He  is  a  great  writer  in  any  style  he  chooses,  and  for 
example  of  another  style  of  his  writing  we  refer  to  "The  Mag- 
nificent Ambersons,"  that  pointed  and  tragic  novel  of  real  life 
which  appeared  as  a  serial  in  the  Metropolitan. 

If  we  looked  for  eight  or  ten  Booth  Tarkington's  a  month  we 
would  very  quickly  enter  a  padded  cell,  although  we  may  confide 
that  the  Circulation  Manager  will  have  no  objections  if  we  de- 
scribe each  one  of  our  writers  in  terms  just  as  superlative.  Let 
us  hasten  to  say,  then,  without  raking  up  a  list  of  famous  names, 
as  we  might  do,  that  we  are  extremely  enthusiastic  about  many, 
many  authors  who  do  not  perhaps  sell  us  more  than  one  story 
apiece  a  year.  There  are  exceptions  like  Elinor  Mordaunt, 
whose  remarkable  tale-telling  talent,  whose  romantic  ilair  for 
the  picturesque  and  dramatic,  whose  love  of  the  salt  sea  and 
strange  adventures  and  adventurers,  have  been  deeply  appreci- 
ated in  the  Metropolitan  many  times  in  the  last  few  years.  But 
as  a  rule  we  do  not  harry  and  pursue  one  author.  We  want 
the  fresh  and  new,  the  deeply  felt,  the  sincere,  the  genuine  ef- 
fort, wherever  we  can  find  it.     We  look  for  it  continually. 


SoNYA  Levien. 


Metropolitan. 

432  Fourth  Avenue, 

New  York  City. 


336  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


THE  MODERN  PRISCILLA 

THE  MODERN  PRISCILLA  finds  Its  readers  among  the 
highly  intelligent  home-abiding  women  of  the  country,  and  in 
the  choice  of  suitable  fiction  for  them,  stories  of  dramatic  inter- 
est having  to  do  with  the  affairs  of  real  people  are  what  is  most 
desired. 

We  do  not  want  sapless  stories,  but  those  that  are  vital,  color- 
ful, interesting,  and  concerned  with  the  actual  problems  of 
to-day. 

We  plan  always  to  publish  two  stories  a  month,  not  over  four 
thousand  words  in  length. 


The  Editors. 


Modern  Prisdlla, 
8s  Broad  Street, 
Boston,  Mass. 


MUNSEY'S  MAGAZINE 

AT  the  time  of  the  comp  ilation  of  this  book  there  had  been 
a  recent  change  in  editorial  management.  The  editors 
in  charge  said  that  they  were  constantly  on  the  look  out  for 
good  short  stories,  the  kind  that  were  being  published  in  The 
Red  Book,  The  Saturday  Evening  Post  and  The  Cosmopolitan. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  stories  that  are  usually  published 
in  Munsey's  Magazine  are  generally  shorter;  another  point 
of  differentiation  that  might  be  brought  out  is  that  they  are 
lighter  in  manner  of  treatment  if  not  in  actual  theme.  This 
though  is  only  a  generalization  and  many  exceptions  can  immedi- 
ately be  pointed  out  for  they  have  in  the  past  published 
stories  by  men  like  Cobb  and  Abdullah  that  the  other  editors 
had  feared  as  too  e.xtreme. 


Munsey's  Magazine. 

The  Frank  A.  Munsey  Co., 

280  Broadway, 

New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  337 


MYSTERY  MAGAZINE 

THE  first  requirement  for  stories  in  Mystery  Magazine,  is 
interest.  Literary  style  is  of  no  consequence  if  the  stories 
arouse  and  hold  our  readers'  interest  from  beginning  to  end. 
The  types  required,  are  detective  stories  and  mystery  stories.  In 
the  former  we  must  have  plots  containing  absorbing  mysteries, 
with  few  principal  characters,  a  pretty  love  theme,  plenty  rele- 
vant dialogue,  lively  action,  and  local  color  pertaining  to  the 
police  department.  A  slight  touch  of  comedy  is  permissible,  but 
dramatic  climaxes  are  the  rule.  Long  drawn  descriptions  tire. 
Large  numbers  of  characters  confuse,  and  too  much  dialogue  is 
irksome.  These  romances  must  be  distinctly,  as  their  name 
implies,  detective  stories,  and  they  must  cater  to  girls  as  well 
as  to  men. 

The  mystery  stories  must  be  based  upon  popular  occult 
theories,  with  lucid  and  logical  explanations  of  the  phenomena, 
or  they  can  be  mere  mysteries  of  a  material  nature.  In  short  we 
only  purchase  good  wholesome  stories,  with  gripping  interest, 
tense  situations  and  powerful,  mystifying  plots,  having  a  simple 
explanation.  Sex  problems  and  stories  of  loose  morals  are  not 
wanted. 


Lu  Senarens. 


Mystery  Magazine. 
Frank  Tousey,  Publisher, 
168  West  23rd  Street, 
New  York  City. 


THE  OUTLOOK 

THE  OUTLOOK  has  only  a  limited  space  available  for  the 
publication  of  fiction,  and  therefore  there  arc  certain  arbi- 
trary bounds  which  we  must  set,  bounds  which  have  little  or  no 
relation  to  literary  merit.  We  do  not  use  continued  stories  and 
we  practically  never  accept  single  stories  of  more  than  five 
thousand  words  in  length,  and  seldom  stories  of  more  than 
three  or  four  thousand  words. 

Within  this  rather  narrow  limit  we  are  anxious  to  secure 
stories  which  show  that  the  author  has  a  background  or  ex- 
perience  and    a   knowledge   of   human   nature.      Fiction   which 


338  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

indicates  the  fact  that  its  author  has  a  sense  of  form,  as  well 
as  an  idea  to  express,  is  doubly  welcome.  Stories  which  are 
sentimental  do  not  appeal  to  us,  but  we  are  also  convinced  that 
stories  with  real  strength  can  be  written  which  are  not  raw, 
crude,  or  offensive  to  good  taste.  We  do  not  think  that  the 
adjective  "strong"  and  the  adjective  "unpleasant"  are  neces- 
sarily sj'nonymous. 

After  all,  the  editorial  selection  of  fiction  depends  so  much 
upon  the  personal  equation  and  upon  the  immediate  needs  of 
a  journal  that  it  is  difficult  to  give  any  more  definite  guide  than 
that  we  have  presented  here  to  those  who  desire  to  submit  fiction 
to  The  Outlook. 


The  Editors  of  The  Outlook. 


The  Outlook  Company. 
381  Fourth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


THE  PARISIENNE 

THE  following  is  in  response  to  your  question  about  what 
kind   of   fiction   we   want    for    The   Parisienne    and    Saucy 
Stories : 

The  Parisienne  and  Saucy  Stories  differ  only  very  slightly  in 
type  of  fiction.  Both  want  stories  with  very  rapid  action  and 
strong,  novel  plots.  The  Parisienne  wants  romance,  gaiety,  ad- 
venture, mystery,  in  the  foreign  and  society  setting.  Saucy 
Stories  wants  melodrama,  adventure,  mystery,  romance,  prefer- 
ably in  an  American  setting.  Both  prefer  the  sex  element, 
though  this  is  not  absolutely  essential.  We  want,  however,  to 
emphasize  especially  that  neither  magazine  wants  stories  that 
are  unpleasantly  risque.  Occult  stories  are  acceptable  but 
nothing  horrible. 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  easier  to  say  what  we  do  not 
want  than  what  wc  do  want — here  are  some  of  the  constant  re- 
jections: 

First  and  last,  nothing  that  is  risque. 

Fillers  in  which  the  mysterious  he,  she  or  it  turns  out  to  be 
a  cat,  dog  or  baby. 

Stories  in  which  the  husband,  wife  or  fiance  fails  to  recog- 
nize wife,  husband  or  fiancee  masquerading  in  any  guise. 

Stories  in  which  the  mysterious  man  whom  husband  suspects 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  339 

turns  out  to  be  the  brother,  or  the  unknown  lady  whom  wife 
suspects  turns  out  to  be  the  sister. 

Stories  in  which  the  denouement  explains  that  the  entire  plot 
is  merely  a  rehearsal  for  the  movies  or  a  play. 

Stories  in  which  the  supposed  farmer's  daughter  turns  out  to 
be  a  famous  movie  star. 

Stories  in  which  the  starving  heroine  is  persuaded  to  play  the 
part  of  an  imaginary  wife  in  order  that  the  rich  relative  will 
leave  his  money  to  the  nephew  whom  he  wanted  to  see  marry 
before  passing  on. 

Stories  in  which  a  will  demands  that  two  people  who  hate 
each  other  marry  and  they  do   fall  in  love  with  one   another. 

Stories  in  which  all  complications  are  explained  by  the  un- 
known existence  of   a  twin. 

War  stories. 

Suicide  stories. 

We  realize  that  this  list  is  quite  incomplete,  but  we  hope  that 
it  will  act  as  a  suggestion  to  would-be  Parisiennc  and  Saucy 
Stories  contributors  that  they  consider  very  carefully  before 
submitting  a  story,  whether  the  plot  answer  our  first  requisite- 
novelty. 

And  we  want  to  make  an  earnest  plea  that  authors  will  not 
only  read  this  short  article  carefully,  but  will  look  over  both 
magazines  and  get  some  idea  of  the  type  of  fiction  required 
before  sending  in  stories  that  are  totally  unsuitcd  to  either 
publication. 

The  Editors. 

The  Par'isienne. 

Saucy  Stories. 

25  West  Forty-fifth  Street, 

New  York  City. 


THE  PEOPLE'S  HOME  JOURNAL 

THE  conscientious  writer  of  fiction,  the  man  who  takes  his 
work  seriously,  is  sure  to  get  his  innings.  And  at  no  time 
in  the  history  of  magazines  has  this  been  so  true  as  now.  War 
conditions  were  responsible  for  a  four-years'  opportunity  seized 
by  too  many  mediocre  writers  to  get  their  wares  before  the 
reading  public.  The  result  has  been  a  healthy,  vigorous  re- 
action against  the  sort  of  stuff  Editors  were  perhaps  obliged  to 
accept  when  so  many  able-bodied,  sober-minded  drivers  of  the 


340  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

quill  were  across  the  sea  fighting  for  battle  honors  instead  of 
bay  wreaths. 

Because  for  thirty-six  years  The  People's  Home  Journal  has 
been  called  "the  magazine  for  every  member  of  the  family,"  it 
has  offered  a  more  inclusive  market  for  fiction  than  magazines 
making  their  principal  appeal  to  women.  Big  stories  of  the 
out  of  doors  have  helped  to  swell  the  Journal's  circulation.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  kind  of  story  that  surprises  the  laugh  be- 
fore the  tear  is  over  is  popular  with  our  readers. 

Certainly  these  readers  will  not  stand  either  for  the  dry-as- 
dust,  categorical  type  of  story,  nor  for  the  rapid-fire  tj'pe,  the 
kind  manufactured,  not  created.  The  Journal's  rising  news- 
stand sales  respond  barometer-wise  to  a  Journal  serial  built 
around  love,  mystery  or  high  adventure,  but  crowded  with  real 
things  happening  and  truthful  in  its  transcript  of  healthy  emo- 
tions. Studies  in  morbid  pathology  come  to  every  Editor's  desk, 
usually  from  the  amateur,  but  the  sane  reactions  which  follow 
situations  dealing  with  real  people  are  what  most  readers 
understand  and  like.  The  villain  who  might  be  your  next-door 
neighbor,  the  hero  who  could  have  jostled  elbows  with  you  in 
the  subway,  the  heroine  who  is  the  not  impossible  she  of  every 
man's  dreams  are  sure  to  score. 

There  will  always  be  a  demand  for  the  psychological  story. 
And  the  story  dealing  with  mental  processes  can  be  made  as 
tense  and  gripping  as  the  so-called  action  story  if  it  has  actual 
story  interest.  But  too  many  psychological  stories  start  out  to 
prove  something  of  no  importance. 

In  the  last  analysis,  "the  story's  the  thing,"  whether  it  deals 
with  battle,  murder  or  sudden  death,  or  with  the  complexities  of 
mind  induced  by  a  given  situation. 

If  I  were  asked  to  explain  briefly  what  I  considered  the  chief 
characteristic  of  The  People's  Home  Journal  story,  I  would  say 
that  it  is  dramatic  because  it  interprets  life  in  a  way  to  stir  the 
emotions,  and  I  would  add  that  it  usually  contains  a  message, 
always  clear  to  the  reader,  a  message  which  lingers  in  his  mem- 
ory when  perhaps  the  plot,  the  characters  and  the  story's  charm 
have  faded. 


Mary  Botsford  Charlton, 


The  People's  Home  Journal, 
76-88  Lafayette  Street, 
New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  341 


PEOPLE'S  MAGAZINE 

IT  is  one  of  the  easiest  things  in  the  world  to  make  a  state- 
ment of  the  negative  side  of  a  proposition  and  it  is  corre- 
spondingly difficult  to  give  an  adequate  and  intelligent  idea  of 
all  that  is  involved  in  the  positive. 

So,  it  is  invariably  my  impulse  to  tell  what  I  don't  want  when 
I  am  asked  to  explain  the  needs  of  the  magazine  of  which  I 
happen  to  be  the  editor.  At  the  present  time  I  am  in  editorial 
charge  of  the  People's  Magazine,  and  its  special  aversions  can 
be  briefly  and,  I  hope,  comprehensively  stated. 

We  will  return,  as  promptly  as  courtesy  permits,  all  manu- 
scripts purporting  to  be  stories — the  magazine  uses  only  fiction — 
but  which  are,  in  fact,  nothing  more  than  catalogues  or  mono- 
logues. "Catalogues"  include  fiction  in  which  descriptive  writ- 
ing prevails,  with  a  minimum  amount  of  action  and  character- 
ization. This  applies  aFso  to  so-called  "machine-made"  stories, 
narratives  merely  of  events,  bare  recitals  of  what  happened  to 
so-and-so  under  such-and-such  conditions.  The  objection  to 
such  stories  is  that,  as  a  rule  they  are  anemic  in  substance, 
superficial  in  conception  and  perfunctory  in  execution.  They  are 
lacking  in  real  vital,  dramatic  interest.  Monologues,  in  the 
derivative  sense  in  which  I  have  used  the  term,  obviously  means 
a  "story  within  a  story,"  or  one  told  by  one  of  the  characters. 

Specifically,  the  People's  Magazine  will  not  publish  a  sex 
story,  or  even  what  is,  generically  and  innocuously,  a  love  story, 
though  as  to  the  latter,  one  which  is  otherwise  acceptable  will 
not  be  rejected  because  it  embodies  a  love  interest  which  is  a 
necessary  episode  in  the  plot;  it  does  not  care  for  pseudo-scien- 
tific stories,  or  business  stories  constructed  according  to  the 
formulas  in  common  use;  it  objects  to  prize-fight  or  other  sport 
stories,  but  only  those  of  the  conventional  type  which,  after 
glancing  at  the  opening,  the  average  reader  can  finish  for  him- 
self with  little  deviation  from  the  text;  it  objects  to  society 
stories,  high,  middle-class  or  low,  and  it  turns  its  back  on  hor- 
rors, sordidness  and  abnormality.  And  finally  it  cannot  use 
mere  character  or  psychological  studies,  which  arc  not  stories 
at  all. 

This  is  a  very  brief  statement,  limited  by  space  requirements, 
of  what  the  People's  Magazine  docs  not  want. 

What  it  does  want  will  take  a  little  longer  to  tell.  The  pre- 
vailing note  of  the  magazine  is  open  air  adventure,  with  a  dis- 
tinctly American  flavor;  with  this  qualification  we  impose  no 
limitations  as  to  place.  Adventure  stories  with  a  setting  in  the 
United  States  or  Canada  may  be  put  in  a  period  within  the 
limits   of   the   nineteenth   or   twentieth   centuries.      There    is    a 


342  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

mine  of  authentic  material  of  highly  dramatic  character,  much 
of  which,  to  be  sure,  has  been  used  in  fiction,  but  by  no  means 
all.  We  do  not  object  to  the  use  in  fictional  forms  of  histori- 
cal events  and  characters  by  name;  in  fact  we  rather  wel- 
come it. 

Every  one,  of  course,  is  familiar  with  the  "western  story." 
Thanks  to  "The  Virginian"  it  has  been  popularized  by  the 
magazines  and  vulgarized  by  the  movies;  we  object,  not  to  the 
"western  story,"  but  to  its  formula.  If  anybody  has  anything 
fresh  and  original  to  contribute  to  it  we  will  thank  God  and 
reward  him  according  to  his  deserts  and  our  ability.  Open  air 
adventure,  American,  but  in  any  part  of  the  world  is,  as  I  have 
said,  the  prevailing  note,  and  we  want  to  strike  that  note  with 
a  complete  novel  of  from  30,000  to  50,000  words  in  every 
number. 

In  general,  and  excluding  the  type  of  stories  I  have  already 
referred  to  as  those  that  we  don't  want,  we  will  accept  any 
short  or  continued  story  that  is  a  really  good  one;  this  covers 
the  mystery  story. 

Now  a  story,  in  order  to  deserve  the  name,  must  involve  a 
conflict  or  duel,  either  of  human  beings,  or — proceeding  of 
course  from  human  beings — ideas  or  emotions.  Without  the 
conflict  there  is  no  drama,  and  without  the  drama  there  is  no 
story.  And  out  of  the  conflict  and  complication  should  come  a 
denouement  which  satisfies  the  reader's  sense  of  justice  or  his 
sense  of  the  appropriateness  of  things  in  general.  Such  a  de- 
nouement may  incur  the  reproach  of  being  a  "happy  ending," 
but  the  author  should  rid  himself  of  that  bugaboo  and  not  be 
afraid  of  utilizing  it,  if  necessary.  It's  only  a  cant  phrase  and 
does  not  mean  a  thing  to  the  masses  who  read  him  and  make 
his  reputation  for  him.  Personally,  I  believe  that  most  unhappy 
endings  are  deliberately  planned  and  thrown  in  as  a  sop  to  the 
Cerberus  of  "realism." 

A  real  story  ought  to  have  an  initial  impulse  that  carries  it 
along,  without  faltering,  from  beginning  to  end,  that  is  to  say, 
movement.  A  great  many  stories  sag  at  some  point,  or  collapse 
in  the  middle  or  go  to  pieces  at  the  end.  Such  catastrophes  can 
be  averted. 

It  sometimes  seems  to  me  that  very,  very  few  authors  realize 
how  much  honest,  sincere  characterization  helps  a  story — how 
much,  indeed,  it  may  help  to  make  a  genuine  story  out  of  a 
verj'  slender  plot.  The  human  element  is  what  gives  a  story 
such  vitality  as  it  has  and  time  and  effort  devoted  to  it  is  well 
spent,  and  usually  profitably  spent. 

This  leads  me  to  say  that  the  human  touch  is  the  thing  we 
look  for  in  every  manuscript  that  comes  in  to  People's 
editorial  oflSce;  somewhere  in  each  story  we  hope  to  find  an  un- 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  343 

expected  display,  by  one  or  more  of  the  characters,  of  courage, 
or  generosity,  or  renunciation,  or  self-sacrifice,  or  some  other 
human  trait  that  brings  to  the  reader  a  conviction  that,  after 
all,  human  nature  is  better  than  experience  has  taught  him  to 
believe.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  people  never  weary  of. 
Common-place  characters,  common-place  experiences,  common- 
place emotions  take  on  dramatic  color  by  these  unlooked-for 
demonstrations. 

Finally,  we  want  our  stories  told  in  plain,  direct,  straight- 
forward style.  We  object  to  any  peculiarity  of  phraseology 
which  tends  to  divert  the  attention  of  the  reader  from  the  sub- 
stance of  the  story  to  the  manner  of  the  writer.  But  individu- 
ality of  style,  which  is  quite  another  thing,  and  honest  slang, 
judiciously  used,  are  welcome. 

I  want  to  conclude  with  a  word  on  some  of  the  delusions,  as 
they  seem  to  me,  about  what  is  called  "the  art  of  the  short 
story,"  or  of  "short  story  writing."  I  am  almost  tempted  to 
say  that  there  is  no  such  art,  but  I  have  no  desire  to  dogmatize 
because,  in  dealing  in  generalities,  it  is  always  necessary  to  add 
qualifications.  I  should  say  that  story-telling  is  instinctive; 
that  every  human  being  has  the  story-telling  sense.  There's 
nothing  particularly  original  in  that  idea,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  its  significance  has  been  curiously  neglected  with  the  result 
that  so-called  instruction  in  the  forms  of  an  alleged  art  has 
taken  the  place  of  the  cultivation  of  an  inherent  impulse.  The 
faculty  of  observation  is  the  one  which,  first  of  all,  makes  any 
story  possible.  In  O.  Henry  it  was  so  highly  developed  that,  at 
a  glance,  he  saw  a  significance  in  things  that  simply  did  not 
exist  for  most  people,  even  for  trained  writers.  To  this  he 
added  facility  of  expression  and  a  sense  of  humor,  which  is 
fundamentally,  a  sense  of  proportion;  and  he  paid  little  attention 
to  forms.  I  speak  of  him  because  he  illustrates  so  distinctly  the 
points  I  have  in  mind  and  also  because  I  was  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  him  and  \\ith  his  methods. 

Of  course  "we  can't  all  be  O.  Henrys" — he  was  born  with 
the  story-telling  sense  fully  developed — but  we  can  attain  a 
certain  degree  of  approximation  to  his  achievements  by  diligent 
cultivation  of  the  three  essentials  that  he  had  without  cultiva- 
tion, namely:  observation,  expression,  proportion.  And  this  is 
a  lesson  that  must  be  self-taught — nobody  can  teach  it.  for  the 
simple  reason  that  one  person  cannot  do  another's  hard  work. 


A.  L.  Sessions. 


People's  Popular  Monthly. 
79   Seventh    Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


344  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


THE  PEOPLE'S  POPULAR  MONTHLY 

WHEN  we  buy  a  short  story  there  are  three  very  different 
things  which  we  desire  that  story  to  do: 

First:  It  must  tell  a  story  compellingly — so  compellingly  that 
when  one  is  through  reading,  there  is  a  very  definite  emotional 
response  which  stays  with  the  reader.  If  one  is  conscious  of  the 
means  technically  employed  to  place  the  story  before  the  reader, 
that  story  has  failed  as  such. 

If,  however,  the  narrative  takes  you  out  of  yourself  and  gives 
you  a  definite  feeling  of  sympathy  with  that  of  the  people  in  the 
story — it  is  in  this  point  successful. 

Second:  Having  gripped  the  attention  and  taken  a  hold  upon 
the  feeling  of  the  reader,  it  must,  in  order  to  qualify  for  a  place 
in  our  pages,  fill  a  very  real  need  in  the  lives  of  our  particular 
type  of   readers. 

There  are  many  splendid  stories  which  we  are  forced  to  re- 
turn, due  to  the  fact  that  they  do  not  fill  this  particular  need. 

We  have  among  our  readers  a  preponderance  of  people  who 
have  been  limited  in  their  mental  experiences  and  are  conse- 
quently limited  in  their  intellectual  grasp.  They  are,  however, 
from  the  rural  and  small  town  districts  in  that  opulent  region  ex- 
tending from  the  AUeghenies  to  the  Rockies,  and  are,  by  virtue 
of  this  fact,  a  peculiarly  keen  and  progressive  people.  Their  judg- 
ment is  sincere  and  their  viewpoint  is  human.  Their  lives  are  in 
many  cases  a  bit  monotonous  and  often  isolated;  in  consequence 
of  which  a  story  should  have  a  real  narrative  interest,  and,  in  all 
cases,  strong  entertainment  value,  with  a  wholesome  dose  of 
brightness  and  good  cheer.     We  return  all  morbidly  tragic  stories. 

Third:  When  we  have  found  a  story  which  stirs  the  feeling 
and  fills  the  need  of  our  particular  readers,  it  is  then  time,  and 
not  until  then,  to  look  to  the  technic  of  the  story.  That  is  some- 
thing which  can  be  regulated  to  a  large  extent  by  editing  in  those 
cases  where  errors  are  not  too  flagrant. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  certain  readability  of  expression,  ab- 
solutely imperative,  but  that  is  something  incorporate  with  the 
first  point.     They  are  practically  inseparable. 

Therefore,  granted  that  the  style  was  such  as  to  make  the 
emotional  feeling  paramount  to  the  word  consciousness  of  the 
reader — then  any  errors  which  may  have  crept  in  are  not  too 
flagrant  to  be  corrected. 

Of  course,  we  do  not  find,  in  as  many  cases  as  we  wish, 
stories  which  meet  all  three  requirements,  and  oftentimes  our 
pages  have  in  them  things  which  fall  short  of  these  three  points. 

The  People's  Popular  Monthly.  Elizabeth  B.  Canaday. 

Des  Moines,   Iowa. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  345 


PHOTOPLAY 

IDG  NOT  believe  that  any  editor,  whether  of  a  fiction  maga- 
zine or  any  periodical,  can  judge  material  successfully  on 
any  other  than  a  very  personal  basis  of  likes  and  dislikes.  In 
other  words,  I  buy  a  story  if  I  like  it,  and  believe  this  to  be  the 
only  method.  Someone  has  to  pass  on  it  finally,  and  a  publica- 
tion must  stand  or  fall  on  his  judgment. 

James  R.  Quirk. 

Photoplay. 

25  West  Forty-fifth  Street, 

New  York  City. 


PICTORIAL  REVIEW 

YOU  ask  me  a  pretty  difficult  question — I  have  no  absolute 
rule  for  saying  yes  or  no  to  a  short  story  and,  as  far  as 
that  goes,  I  don't  think  any  other  editor  has.  There  are  such 
things  in  magazine  offices  as  editorial  policies,  but  if  they  are 
good  editorial  policies  they  must  be  more  or  less  elastic,  subject 
to  change  without  notice  and  not  very  well  defined  a:.»yway. 
Folks  come  in  and  ask  me  what  kind  of  stories  Pictorial  Review 
likes.  The  only  answer  I  can  give  is  "good  stories."  If  they 
ask  why  I  buy  this  story  and  not  that,  1  would  say  because  I 
think  it  more  interesting  than  the  other,  but  to  go  further  and 
to  ask  me  to  explain  precisely  why  it  is  the  more  interesting  is 
too  much  for  me.  There  may  be  editors  who  can  sit  down  and 
in  a  magic  manner  tell  just  exactly  why  they  bought  this  story 
and  refused  that,  but  they  must  be  smarter  editors  than  I  am. 
I  really  cannot  do  it  with  sincerity  or  conviction  and  do  not  try. 

Do  I  buy  stories  because  I  like  them  myself  or  because  I 
think  our  readers  will  like  them?  That's  another  sticker.  I 
generally  buy  stories  because  I  like  them  myself,  because  if  I 
disregarded  my  own  taste  and  tried  to  pick  out  a  story  that  our 
readers  would  like  and  which  I  didn't  like,  I  would  be  hopelessly 
at  sea  all  the  time. 

I  would  really  feel  ashamed  of  myself  were  I  to  publish  a 
story  which  I  personally  thought  to  be  piffle  just  because  I 
thought  it  would  "sell  the  magazine."' 

Moreover,  I  don't  think  any  editor  knows  just  what  his  read- 
ers like  or  might  like  except  in  a  general  way.     We  have  no 


346  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

exact  way  of  telling  and  my  experience  has  been  to  follow  my 
own  judgment  and,  when  the  Circulation  Manager  comes  along 
and  tells  me  the  circulation  of  the  magazine  is  increasing  by 
leaps  and  hounds,  I  am  then  licensed  to  feel  that  my  judgment 
must  have  been  good.  Because  I  am  just  a  plain,  ordinary  type 
of  person  and  there  must  be  hundreds  of  thousands  and  millions 
of  people  in  the  country  like  me;  and  what  interests  me  will 
quite  generally  interest  them,  at  least  I  have  found  it  so.  Don't 
take  from  this  that  the  Circulation  Manager  comes  along  every 
month  and  tells  me  the  circulation  of  the  magazine  is  increasing 
by  leaps  and  bounds,  but  sometimes  he  does,  and  then  I  know 
a  certain  story  or  serial  in  the  magazine  got  across  in  a  big  way; 
but  what  docs  that  mean?  It  doesn't  mean  that  I  can  go  out 
off-hand  and  get  another  story  just  like  it  and  ring  the  bell 
again.  We  don't  buy  stories  that  way — writers  do  not  write 
them  that  wav — I  wish  they  did  because  the  editor's  job  would 
be  easy. 

Now  here's  another  peculiar  thing.  Pictorial  Review  is  a 
woman's  magazine,  and  yet  I  am  a  man  and  there  is  nothing 
particularly  feminine  about  me  in  my  tastes  or  activities.  We 
do  not  pick  out  stories  because  we  think  they  are  good  woman's 
magazine  stories;  in  fact,  we  have  no  earthly  use  for  the  typical 
woman's  magazine  story,  that  sweet  and  pretty,  mush  and  milk 
afFair  that  used  to  grace  the  pages  of  our  contemporaries.  We 
found  out  years  ago  that  women  were  interested  in  good,  short 
stories  that  picture  the  vital,  human  things  in  life  and  that  there 
was  no  real  reason  for  their  being  obliged  to  go  to  the  men's 
magazines  to  read  them.  So  we  began  to  publish  real  stories 
in  Pictorial  Review, 

I  realize  that  all  this  is  more  or  less  indefinite  and  possibly 
of  little  help  to  the  aspiring  author,  but  if  said  aspiring  author 
will  bear  in  mind  that  the  only  way  to  sell  short  stories  is  to 
make  them  interesting  and,  if  they  are  made  sufficiently  interest- 
ing, they  will  sell  themselves — that's  all  there  is  to  it. 


Arthur  T.  Vance. 


Pictorial  Review. 

The  Pictorial  Review  Company, 
214-226  West  39th  Street, 
New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  347 


POPULAR  MAGAZINE 

IN  selecting  stories  I  bear  in  mind  the  fact  that  the  buying  of 
fiction  is  a  business  and  not  a  h'terary  occupation.  This  means 
that  I  have  always  in  mind  the  ultimate  consumer — the  fellow 
who  knows  nothing  of  literature  as  such  but  who  likes  good 
stories. 

What  are  these? 

First  and  foremost,  a  story  about  a  new  phase  of  life  and  in- 
dustry. The  American  reader  is  by  no  means  a  prude  or  intol- 
erant, but  he  likes  sane,  almost  practical  stuff.  He  likes  ro- 
mance, but  it  must  be  normal  and  wholesome.  He  does  not  like 
the  erotic  or  morbid.  Without  being  in  the  least  "literary,"  his 
taste  is  surprisingly  good.  As  a  rule,  he  does  not  want  tragedies, 
but  will  accept  them  if  exceedingly  well  done.  A  good  mystery 
story  is  sure-fire. 

Current  American  fiction  is  one  of  the  livest  things  in  the 
world  to-day.  Keen  intelligence  goes  into  the  making  of  it.  It 
plays  a  bigger  part  in  the  formation  of  public  opinion  than  most 
people  know.  It  is  a  genuinely  civilizing  influence.  As  a  rule, 
a  man's  taste  in  fiction  improves  and  his  standards  in  stories 
become  higher  the  more  he  reads.  The  very  cheapest  of  the 
magazines  are  turning  the  foreign  populations  of  the  second 
generation  in  our  cities  into  Americans  at  a  surprising  rate.  The 
author  of  the  day  is  writing  for  a  big  public,  not  a  small,  select 
one. 

Here  are  a  few  things  for  the  author  to  bear  in  mind,  li  a 
writer  can  describe  human  beings  so  well  that  they  seem  real ; 
if  he  sometimes  laughs  at,  sometimes  is  irritated  with,  some- 
times loves  these  people  who  come  to  life  in  the  pages  of  the 
story,  he  has  his  first  great  point.  If  he  can  write  conversation 
such  as  you  actually  hear  he  has  his  second.  If  he  can  write 
good,  straightforward  English,  at  once  clear,  forcible,  and  vivid, 
he  has  the  third.  But  all  of  these  are  of  no  use  unless  the 
author  has  the  sense  of  construction  that  makes  him  w.ite  real 
stories, — that  is,  plots  that  unfold  and  develop  to  a  logical  con- 
clusion, instead  of  mere  sketches  or  anecdotes.  The  one  satis- 
fies; the  other  does  not. 

Successful  authors  all  work  hard,  and  the  bigger  an  author 
is  the  more  you  can  criticise  his  work  to  his  face.  He  appreci- 
ates that  it  is  a  technical  calling  and  he  wants  and  appreciates 
intelligent  criticism. 

Are  there  many  good  writers  who  can't  get  a  hearing?  Prac- 
tically none.     Names  count  in  a  fashion.     The  author  who  has 


348  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

a  public  gets  stronger  with  his  readers  the  more  he  writes.  If 
a  man  has  a  literary  gift  and  the  energy  and  persistency  back 
of  it  he  will  find  fiction  a  good  bi'siness. 

But  just  because  story-writing  has  taken  on  some  of  the  as- 
pects of  commercialism  it  has  by  no  means  lost  the  romance, 
the  humor,  the  humanity,  that  it  had  in  the  old  Grub  Street 
days.  After  all,  we  are  dealing  with  the  stuff  that  dreams  are 
made  of,  the  inspiration  of  ambition,  the  literature  of  hope  and 
effort  and  human  aspiration,  the  running  chronicle  of  our  ways, 
our  manners,  our  civilization.  Most  of  it  will  fade  and  pass 
with  the  fading  years;  some  of  it  will  live. 


Charles  Agnew   MacLean. 


Popular  Magazine. 
Street  and  Smith  Corporation, 
Seventh  Avenue  and  Fifteenth  Street, 
New  York  City. 


THE  RED  BOOK  MAGAZINE 

KARL  HARRIMAN,  the  editor,  had  promised  a  statement 
as  he  said  that  he  welcomed  this  opportunity  to  point 
out  to  would-be  contributors  the  differentiation  in  editorial 
policy  between  The  Red  Book  Magazine,  The  Blue  Book  Mag- 
azine and  The  Green  Book  Masjazine.  However,  a  press  of 
unexpected  work  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  do  this  before 
this  book  had  to  be  sent  to  press.  At  that  time  he  spoke  in 
a  general  way  of  the  fact  that  for  The  Red  Book  Magazine 
he  was  constantly  looking  for  stories  of  the  different  sections 
of  the  United  States;  then  again  for  stories  of  the  different 
interests  that  were  absorbing  the  attention  of  the  people  at 
the  moment,  such  as  stories  of  oil,  psychic  stories,  etc. 
For  The  Blue  Book  Magazine  he  wanted  more  out-and-out 
adventu/e  and  tales  that  would  primarily  appeal  to  men; 
for  The  Green  Book  Magazine  stories  that  would  find  their 
immediate  audience  among  women. 

The  Red  Book  Magazine. 
The  Blue  Book  Magazine. 
The  Green  Book  Magazine. 
36  South  State  Street, 
Chicago,    111. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  349 


THE  SATURDAY  EVENING  POST 

GEORGE  HORACE  LORIMER,  the  editor-in-chief  of 
The  Saturday  Evening  Post,  said  quite  frankly  when  asked 
to  write  briefly  his  attitude  and  point  of  view  in  the  selecting 
of  fiction  for  his  magazine  that  neither  he  nor  his  staff  were 
willing  to  regard  the  Post  as  a  training  school  for  young  writ- 
ers. 

He  went  on  to  say  that  he  and  his  associates  felt  that  the 
circulation  of  the  magazine,  the  fact  that  it  bought  more 
fiction  than  any  other  American  periodical,  paid  well  and  quickly, 
and  published  without  great  delay,  made  it  inevitable  that 
most  writers  who  entered  the  profession  would  in  the  course 
of  events  submit  material  to  the  Post.  Should  a  story  by  an 
unknown  writer  please  one  of  the  staff  readers  it  would  then 
be  submitted  to  him  and  to  his  immediate  associates  for  accep- 
tance or  rejection.  Should  this  same  writer  succeed  equally 
with  subsequent  stories,  the  Post's  editors  would  then  personally 
consult  with  this  author  as  to  the  magazine's  immediate  needs 
and  help  by  suggestion  and  advice  to  make  his  or  her  material 
more  available  from  the  Post  viewpoint. 

In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  while  their 
list  of  writers  includes  many  of  the  best-known  names  among 
American  short  story  writers,  the  magazine  has  also  accepted 
and  published  the  stories  of  many  writers  who  had  had  no 
previous  audience  and  whose  names  were  until  the  time  of  their 
appearance  in  the  Post  wholly  unknown. 

While  it  is  perhaps  impossible  to  state  tersely  what  the  Post 
wants,  and  while  Mr.  Lorimer  may  hesitate  to  speak  didac- 
tically as  to  what  is  and  what  is  not  a  good  short  story,  the 
earnest  student  can  easily  discern  certain  of  the  Post  require- 
ments by  a  study  of  the  magazine.  That  the  stories  are  inclined 
to  run  to  a  certain  more  or  less  definite  length;  that  the  major- 
ity are  American  in  both  setting  and  characters;  that  they  con- 
form to  a  certain  standard  of  writing  and  method  of  treatment 
is  at  once  apparent,  and  certain  errors  of  judgment  in  submission 
may  easily  be  avoided. 


The  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
Curtis  Publishing  Co., 
Independence  Square, 
Philadelphia,  Pa, 


350  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


SCRIBNER'S  MAGAZINE 

ROBERT  BRIDGES,  the  editor  of  Scribner's  Magazine, 
felt  that  he  would  do  injustice  to  his  periodical  were  he 
to  attempt  to  say  in  a  few  short  paragraphs  the  type  of  stories 
they  preferred.  He  went  on  to  say  that  the  magazine  had 
been  in  existence  for  so  long  that  its  reputation  for  good  art 
and  good  craftsmanship  in  everything  that  appeared  in  its 
pages  was  so  well  established  that  nothing  he  could  say  would 
either  add  to  or  make  more  definitelv  practical  from  the 
neophyte's  approach  the  type  of  fiction  wanted. 

Scribncrs  Magazine, 
599  Fifth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


SHORT  STORIES 

^~^HE  best,  indeed  the  only  reply  to  the  question  as  to  the 
needs    of    a    magazine   that    I    can   think   of   is — read    it. 
That  is  the  answer  for  Short  Stories. 

When  a  writer  asks  me  what  we  want  for  Short  Stories,  I  am 
apt  to  feel  a  bit  hopeless  for,  as  I  see  it,  my  first  duty  is  to  seek 
and  develop  talent,  and  my  second  is  to  select  material.  I  cannot 
feel  that  it  is  good  for  a  fiction  magazine,  nor  good  for  a  fiction 
writer,  to  have  the  editor  suggest  ideas,  or  plots.  (General 
magazines  using  non-fiction  articles  are  different.  In  the  nature 
of  things  they  must  suggest  articles  and  ideas  to  their  writers.) 
An  intelligent  reading  of  a  fiction  magazine  will  give  a  better 
idea  of  its  aims  and  field  than  any  amount  of  talking  by  the 
editor.  We  can  at  best,  in  the  time  at  our  disposal,  give  an  idea 
of  our  field.  The  more  important  thing  is  the  spirit  of  the 
magazine,  and  that  can  only  be  taken  in  by  reading  it. 

Once  a  writer  gets  the  spirit  of  the  magazines  he  wishes  to 
write  for  and  has  determined  their  respective  fields,  it  is  up 
to  him. 

Within  the  scope  of  his  publication,  and  in  its  general  spirit, 
what  an  editor  wants  most  of  all  is  ideas — something  new,  fresh, 
different. 

There  is  one  more  preliminary  point — self-analysis.  Many 
writers  suffer  from  lack  of  understanding  of  their  own  material. 
The  field  is  so  large  to-day  that  any  writer  can  develop  his  own 
natural   imaginative   expression   and  find  a  market  for  it.     If 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  35 1 

one  is  more  interested  in  outdoor  adventure — write  it.  If  a 
writer's  mind  runs  to  psj'chological  problem  stories — write 
those.  There  are  magazines  looking  for  adventure  and  others 
looking  for  psychological  character  analysis.  But  don't,  Mr. 
Writer,  try  to  force  yourself  to  write  something  you  yourself 
do  not  like.  You  cannot  write  down  to  a  field  successfully,  and 
you  must  develop  into  a  higher  literary  class  naturally,  by  hard 
work. 

As  for  Short  Stories:  Being  primarily  a  magazine  of  adven- 
ture and  the  outdocj-rs,  our  interest  naturally  lies  in  that  field 
first.  Our  public  is, a  wide  one  embracing  many  kinds  of  people. 
Yet,  when  they  buy  a  fiction  magazine  like  Short  Stories,  we  are 
convinced  they  do  so  in  pretty  much  the  same  frame  of  mind. 
They  want  to  be  amused.  They  want  a  good  story.  They 
want  to  read  it  in  a  hurry,  on  a  railroad  train,  in  a  spare  hour, 
or  to  relieve  a  tedious  wait.  We  believe  they  do  not  want  too 
much  complexity,  nor  too  highly  polished  a  style.  Literary  ex- 
cellence is  all  to  the  good.  We  want  it  and  our  readers  ap- 
preciate it,  but  it  must  be  within  our  field  and  done  in  our  spirit. 
For  example,  imagine  the  joy  of  our  public  if  we  could  publish 
as  brand  new  to-day  some  of  Kipling's  early  short  stories — "The 
Man  That  Would  Be  King."  "William  the  Conqueror,"  and  the 
rest.  They  fall  perfectly  "within  our  scope,"  and  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  they  were  done  by  the  greatest  literary  craftsman 
of  the  age,  they  are  not,  like  some  of  his  later  work,  too  subtle 
for  our  public.  They  are  mostly  on  the  objective  plane,  full  of 
action,  stories  straight  from  the  shoulder. 

Of  course,  our  public  like  stories  of  the  far  places,  of  the 
West,  both  old  and  new,  of  the  North  and  the  Tropics.  Yet, 
even  to  these  there  are  some  strange  exceptions  such  as  the 
question  of  remoteness  from  the  reader's  understanding.  Miles 
are  nothing  to  the  author  or  to  the  reader  of  the  printed  page, 
but  unless  the  author  succeeds  in  making  the  reader  feel  his 
locality,  the  sense  of  remoteness  creeps  in  and  the  story  fails. 
Naturally,  with  this  small  world  and  the  fairly  limited  number 
of  situations  possible  to  a  human  being  in  adventure,  variety 
becomes  a  very  desirable  thing  with  us — variety,  remember, 
within  our  field. 

The  public  that  reads  Short  Stories  likes  mystery  stories. 
That  in  itself  is  a  broad  field  and  includes  the  tales  of  the  track- 
ing down  of  the  perpetrators  of  crime — detective  stories.  We 
have  mighty  few  hard  and  fast  rules,  but  we  never  use  a  story 
in  which  we  make  crime  and  criminals  heroic.  If  the  hero  of  a 
story  is  a  burglar,  we  want  the  story  to  siiow  his  redemption, 
the  failure  of  crime  with  its  ultimate  punishment,  or  we  want 


352  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

his  actions  within  the  story  to  be  for  a  laudable  purpose.  Our 
attitude  may  best  be  summed  up  by  the  phrase,  "the  effect  on  the 
young."  We  want  no  story  which  will  have  an  evil  effect  on  any 
reader. 

Mystery  stories  tend  to  run  along  conventional  lines.  We 
would  like  some  variety  there.  The  playwrights  have  accom- 
plished something  new  and  thrilling  in  pieces  such  as:  "The 
Unknown  Purple,"  "The  13th  Chair,"  "The  Alibi"  with  excel- 
lent results.  Why  cannot  some  equally  ingenious  writers  work 
out  mystery  tales  as  far  from  the  ordinary  murder  or  jewel 
mysteries  as  these? 

And  humor!  Oh,  give  us  humor!  Not  too  subtle,  nor  too 
rough.  But  give  us  a  laugh.  Human  interest  stories  too.  Busi- 
ness stories  and  the  sports  interest  our  readers.  They  are 
fairly  scarce,  the  good  ones,  so  we  are  always  on  the  lookout 
for  them. 

Short  Stories,  like  its  contemporaries,  including  The  Satur- 
day Evening  Post,  was  created  by  a  reading  public's  demand. 
Therefore,  with  the  exception  of  the  purely  love  stories  and 
speaking  quite  generally,  any  story  that  would  hit  The  Satur- 
day Evening  Post  would  hit  us.  Many  and  many  a  writer  ap- 
pearing regularly  in  that  great  weekly  has  found  himself 
through  the   medium   of  Short  Stories   and   similar   magazines. 

The  love  theme  is  desirable  in  our  field.  Our  public,  we  be- 
lieve, likes  it,  but  only  as  a  normal  motive  in  a  plot.  We  do 
not  use  love  stories,  as  such,  but  love  naturally  enters  into  and 
strengthens  any  story,  adventure,  mystery,  business,  humor, 
sports,  or  what  not. 

We  are  not  squeamish,  yet  we  never  forget  that  phrase,  "the 
influence  on  the  young."  We  do  not  want  to  print  any  story 
that  leaves  a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth.  Our  public  do  not  want 
nor  expect  that  in  Short  Stories.  Hence,  the  so-called  sex  story 
is  not  for  us. 

A  word  as  to  dialect.  We  try  to  print  stories  that  read  easily 
and  smoothly.  Too  hard  or  too  consistent  a  dialect  repels 
readers.  Likewise,  the  widely  popular  slang  "roughneck"  story. 
We  use  'em  of  course,  but  we  do  not  want  'em  too  rough.  Every 
reader  likes  the  relief  of  straight  English  rather  than  to  go 
through  page  after  page  of  dialect  or  slangy  misspelling. 

But,  read  the  magazine,  and  then  within  our  scope  give  us 
something  different. 

Harry  E.  Maule. 

Short  Stories. 

DouBLEDAY  Page  &  CoMPANY,  PubHshefs, 

Garden  City,  N.Y. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  353 


THE  SMART  SET 

S  Editors  of  The  Smart  Set.  Mencken  and  I  buy  any  story 
4.  ^  that  appeals  to  us  personally.  We  employ  no  so-called 
"readers."  Every  manuscript  submitted  to  the  magazine  is 
read  by  the  one  or  the  other  of  us.  We  have  no  rules.  But, 
we  have  prejudices.  Style  is  a  most  important  factor.  The 
viewpoint  of  a  cultured  man  or  woman  is  a  most  important 
factor. 

George  Jean  Nathan. 


A 


The  Smart  Set. 

25  West  Forty-fifth  Street, 

New  York  City. 


SNAPPY  STORIES 

I  AM  setting  forth,  more  or  less  briefly,  what  Snappy  Stories 
desires  from  its  contributors.  From  its  inception,  this  maga- 
zine has  specialized  in  fiction  and  other  material  with  a  strong 
sex  interest,  and  this  policy  is  being  adhered  to — not  because 
this  is  the  only  type  of  story  that  appeals  to  us,  but  because  we 
feel  that  there  are  a  vast  number  of  readers  who  enjoy  tales 
with  themes  based  upon  the  relations  between  the  sexes.  This 
is  by  no  means  a  depraved  taste,  but  a  healthy,  natural  one, 
characterizing  most  normal  men  and  women.  Many  of  the  most 
famous  stories  ever  written  have  had  this  so-called  sex  interest, 
and  this  applies  also  to  plays  and  grand  operas.  Vulgar  or 
salacious  material  is  barred,  but  we  have  no  objection  to  stories 
that  are  a  trifle  audacious  or  that  have  a  dash  of  the  risque. 

Each  bi-monthly  issue  of  Snappy  Stories  contains  a  complete 
novelette  of  from  15,000  to  18,000  words.  This  is  the  length 
we  prefer,  although  we  sometimes  publish  longer  novelettes  or 
shorter  ones.  They  should  be  strongly  plotted,  with  plenty  of 
action  and  a  real  climax.  Happy  endings  preferred,  but  not 
absolutely  insisted  upon.  Occasionally  a  good  humorous  novel- 
ette or  an  ingeniously  plotted  mystery  story,  without  a  pro- 
nounced sex  interest,  is  used. 

We  publish  one  short  serial  of  from  20,000  to  30,000  words, 
suitable  for  two  or  three  parts.  Longer  stories  are  occasionally 
taken,   and  used  in  a  greater  number  of  installments.     What 


354  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

we  have  said  about  the  novelette  applies  also  to  the  continued 
story:  stories  w^ith  sex  interest  stand  the  best  chance  of  accept- 
ance. Of  course  we  desire  good  "breaks"  where  they  are  to  be 
divided. 

Short  stories,  of  which  we  use  about  eight  to  a  number,  may 
be  of  almost  any  length,  although  those  of  5,000  words  or  less 
are  most  in  demand.  We  don't  want  them  either  padded  or 
unduly  compressed.  Sex  interest  here  also,  although  we  some- 
times use  other  kinds — humorous,  say,  or  a  good  occult  or  mys- 
tery tale.  We  do  not  object  to  unhappy  endings.  Action  is  a 
desideratum.  Slow  moving  stories,  depending  principally  on  at- 
mosphere and  characterization,  are  not  desired. 

A  short  play  is  published  in  every  issue.  These  may  be  funny 
or  serious.  We  want  especially  good  acting  plays,  clever  and 
skilfully   plotted. 

We  use  a  number  of  poems,  mostly  tense  love  verses  or  those 
of  a  humorous  or  whimsical  sort.  Occasionally  blank  verse  is 
used.  Poems  may  vary  in  length  from  the  quatrain  to  forty 
lines.  We  seldom  buy  longer  ones,  although  this  is  not  a  hard 
and  fast  rule. 

There  is  a  good  market  here  for  short  bits  of  prose,  of  six 
hundred  words  or  less.  These  may  be  grave  or  gay,  cynical  or 
satirical.     Jokes  and  epigrams  are  also  in  demand. 

Writers  should  make  a  little  study  of  the  magazine  to  which 
they  desire  to  contribute,  as  in  this  way  they  will  save  their  own 
time  as  well  as  the  editor's.  We  are  only  too  glad  to  get  in 
touch  with  new  writers,  and  do  all  we  can  to  encourage  and 
develop  them. 


The  Editor. 


Snappy  Stories. 

The  New  Fiction  Publishing  Company, 

35-37  West  Thirty-ninth  Street, 

New  York  City. 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  351; 


TELLING  TALES 

IN  the  ten  years  or  so  that  I  have  been  editing  magazines  that 
question  "Why  I  Buy  the  Stories  I  Do"  has  been  asked  of 
me  dozens  and  dozens  of  times,  and  I  am  as  far  as  ever  from 
being  able  to  answer  it. 

Authors  and  would-be  authors  are  constantly  coming  and  say- 
ing: "Mr.  Clayton,  what  kind  of  stories  do  you  want  for  your 
magazine?"  and  the  only  answer  I  can  give  them  is,  that  I  want 
any  good  story,  providing  it  is  not  a  sex  story,  and  when  they 
want  to  pin  me  down  to  what  constitutes  a  good  story  I  am 
utterly  lost,  and  can  only  say  that  my  idea  of  a  good  story  is 
any  story  that  I   like. 

I  presume  that  every  magazine  to  be  successful  must  be  an 
expression  of  its  editor's  individual  taste.  In  other  words,  it 
must  have  a  personality  of  its  own,  and  that  personality  can 
only  come  from  the  man  who  makes  it. 

Perhaps  the  point  that  appeals  to  me  most  strongly  about  a 
story  is  the  hiimanness  of  its  characters.  They  mi'-'.t  really 
live,  so  that  the  reader  is  impressed  with  their  realiij.  Only 
thus  may  he  come  to  feel  toward  them  a  friendly  spirit  which 
will  lead  him  to  take  an  actual  interest  in  their  adventures  or 
misadventures,  their  love  affairs,  their  successes  or  failures. 

The  writing  of  a  story  is  not,  to  me,  the  most  important  part 
of  it.  If  the  story  is  there,  careful  editorial  work  will  smooth 
out  many  of  the  crudities  of  expression  or  careless  short-comings 
of  its  author,  but  no  editing  can  supply  a  plot  where  none  exists, 
nor  make  human  or  interesting  characters  that  are  obviously 
mere  wooden  puppets  to  their  creator. 

Of  course,  the  better  written  a  story  is,  the  larger  is  apt  t6  be 
the  check  that  is  sent  in  return  for  it,  because  naturally,  an  edi- 
tor, like  the  buyer  of  any  commodity,  cannot  afford  to  pay  as 
much  for  raw  materials  requiring  a  great  deal  of  work  to  put 
them  into  usable  shape,  as  he  can  for  a  finished  and  perfected 
article. 

To  sum  up,  I  would  say  that  before  writing  a  story  an 
author  should  first  have  a  story  to  tell,  and  then  be  as  careful 
as  possible  in  the  telling.  The  main  quality  needed  after  that, 
if  one  is  to  become  a  successful  writer,  is,  I  should  say,  in- 
exhaustible perseverance. 

William  M   Clayton. 
Telling  Tales. 
114  Bible  House, 
New  York  City. 


356  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


TODAY'S  HOUSEWIFE 


OU  ask  me  to  give  you  some  indication  of  the  fiction  re- 
quirements of   Today's  Housewife.     I  can  give  you  this 


Y 

very  briefly:  About  all  that  we  require  is  that  the  story  shall 
be  clean  and  interesting.  It  may  deal  with  the  home  and  child 
interest,  it  may  be  a  married  love  story,  a  young  love  story,  a 
humorous  story  or  one  of  adventure  and  mystery.  There  must 
be  no  sex  problem;  no  repulsive  crime.  It  may  be  as  much  of 
a  thriller  as  any  one  can  desire,  but  it  must  lead  to  ultimate 
good;  it  must  leave  the  reader  in  a  satisfied  frame  of  mind,  al- 
though this  does  not  necessarily  mean  that  it  needs  have  a 
"happy  ending."  It  must  have  a  satisfactory  ending  and  it  must 
lead  the  reader  along  an  upward  path.  We  like  our  stories  to 
be  full  of  action,  plenty  of  sparkling  dialogue,  and  they  must 
be  well  written.  We  use  but  few  stories  in  Today's  HousewifCj 
but  we  demand  that  these  be  of  an  excellent  type. 


Della  T.  Lutes. 


Today's  Housewife. 
Cooperstown,  N.Y. 


TOP-^NOTCH  MAGAZINE 

IT  always  seems  to  me  so  futile  to  talk  to  people  who  do  not 
know  how  to  write  stories  about  the  way  they  should  be 
written.  I  feel  that  when  I  attempt  it,  I  speak  a  language  they 
do  not  understand.  I  never  have  a  feeling  that  I  am  being 
understood  when  I  talk  on  the  subject  to  amateurs.  And  ex- 
perience tells  me  that  I  am  not  understood.  I  must  ask  you, 
therefore,  to  excuse  me  from  holding  forth  on  this  very  illusive 
topic. 

Thanking  you  for  the  compliment  you  pay  me  in  asking  me 
to  write  something,  I  am 

Yours  very  truly, 

Henry  W.  Thomas, 

Editor. 
Top-Notch  Magazine. 
79-89  Seventh  Avenue, 
islew  York  City. 


J 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  357 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 

THE  kind  of  storj'  I  am  always  longing  to  have  for  my  maga- 
zine must  have  in  it  characters  that  affect  me  as  human 
beings  would,  characters  that  are  true  to  their  inheritance  and 
environment,  Vvho  react  honestly  and  sincerely  to  their  training 
and  surroundings.  Write  about  any  type  of  man,  woman  or 
child  that  you  choose,  but  make  them  true  to  type,  or  rather 
true  to  character.  For  instance,  the  longshoreman  must  not 
only  talk,  but  think  and  feel  like  a  longshoreman.  It  seems  im- 
portant to  me  that  the  soubrette  should  not  react  to  life  as  a 
bishop  would,  and  that  the  philosophy  of  a  returned  soldier 
should  vary  somewhat  from  that  of  an  elderly  spinster  of  New 
England  training. 

In  other  words  the  fiction  writer  has  got  to  know  life,  either 
by  intuition,  in  which  case  he  has  genius;  or  by  experience,  in 
which  case  talent  will  serve. 

And  having  achieved  the  power  to  see  life  profoundly  and 
sincerely  you  must  then  find  a  way  to  tell  your  public  what  you 
see,  to  tell  it  in  such  a  manner  that  you  create  the  illusion  of  life 
in  your  characters,  and  make  the  characters  create  the  illusion 
of  reality  in  their  environment. 

An  author  may  write  cleverly,  smartly,  brightly,  with  quite 
a  little  sense  of  drama,  sell  his  stories  easily,  and  have  a  name 
that  you  remember,  and  not  possess  one  atom  of  real  insight 
into  human  nature,  and  not  one  moment's  grasp  of  power  to 
portray  humanity  through  words  that  convince  and  thrill. 

I  am  not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  idea  that  if  you  amuse  the 
public  you  arc  a  good  short  story  writer,  or  even  if  you  manage 
to  thrill  the  public  that  your  short  stories  are  worthwhile.  Very 
young  and  very  poor  writers  can  do  both  these  things. 
And  1  do  not  think  it  at  all  necessary  to  have  happy  endings  to 
stories.  This  absurd  catering  to  the  more  feeble  public  mind 
is  not  thought  essential  in  writing  an  opera  or  a  great  tragedy 
or  in  painting  a  picture.  Wagner  did  not  think  that  it  was 
necessary  at  the  end  of  "Gotterdiimmerung"  to  have  his  orchestra 
play  some  tinkling  little  melody  to  send  his  people  home  happy. 
He  wrote  his  music  so  that  you  go  home  after  the  great  sacri- 
fice of  Brunnhilde's  filled  with  mighty  splendid  thoughts  of  life, 
love,  death  and  immortality.  When  Rodin  pictured  "A  Thinker," 
a  man  facing  universal  problems,  he  did  not  carve  at  his  side 
a  merry  little  clown  to  cheer  up  the  beholder,  who  is  afraid  of 
thought.  And  a  poet  does  not  jest  at  the  end  of  a  beautiful 
rhythm  that  has  poured  out  through  his  heart  and  soul. 

So  why  should  we  ask  of  the  writer,  and  always  of  the  dram- 


358  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

atist,  that  these  particular  works  of  art  should  invariably  leave 
humanity  smiling,  light-hearted  and  forgetful.  I  do  not  think 
it  is  necessary  to  consider  the  ending  at  all,  let  it  develop  from 
the  psychology  of  the  people  in  the  story,  and  make  the  episode 
as  it  would  be  in  life  to  the  best  of  your  ability. 

I  think,  perhaps,  at  the  start,  the  best  way  to  learn  how  to 
write  is,  not  to  write.  And,  of  course,  I  mean  here,  not  to  write 
thoughtlessly  and  without  relating  life  to  words.  Above  all,  I 
am  opposed  to  studying  models  in  writing.  I  would  like  to  say, 
forget  all  about  the  styles  that  have  been  set  before  you  as 
models.  Disregard  those  famous  old  English  essayists.  Turn 
your  face  away  firmly,  however  reluctantly,  from  Lamb,  Ma- 
caulay  and  Carlyle.  I  even  advise  you  to  bid  a  sad  farewell  to 
Edith  Wharton  and  Henry  James.  And  while  Bernard  Shaw 
will  amuse  and  delight  you,  he  will  only  inspire  you  to  imitate 
him.  And  what  could  be  less  important  to  you,  and  more  tor- 
turing to  the  editors  than  to  join  the  ever-swelling  army  of 
Shaw's  imitators?  Because  the  important  thing  about  Shaw 
is — his  fantastic  brain,  his  whimsical  soul,  his  lack  of  philosophy, 
his  ability  to  contort  all  life  into  witty  jeers,  and  these  attributes 
for  good  or  evil  you  must  be  born  with. 

It  sounds  very  drastic,  but  I  think  it  very  important  to 
empty  your  minds  of  all  literary  ideals.  And  above  all  to  aban- 
don forever  the  burning  desire  "to  express  yourself."  Because 
it  is  immensely  more  important  to  gather  through  experience 
and  vision  and  fine  sympathy,  universal  truths  to  express,  than 
to  imagine  that  within  oneself  is  hidden  a  great  unwritten  truth. 
Once  your  mind  is  delightfully  empty  and  free  and  at  your  com- 
mand, begin  to  think,  to  observe,  to  appreciate;  but  do  not  make 
the  mistake  of  branding  the  people  you  meet  as  interesting 
models  for  fiction  writing.  It  is  far  more  important  to  think 
of  your  characters  as  real  people.  After  you  have  learned  to 
observe  life  honestly  and  very  simply,  all  the  phases  of  life  with 
which  you  come  into  contact,  then  write  exactly  what  you 
think  about  them,  just  as  you  would  tell  typical  episodes  to 
some  one  interested  in  your  observation — except  of  course  that 
you  must  tell  your  story  conscientiously,  you  must  bear  in  mind 
the  pattern  that  you  are  weaving.  And  you  are  not  writing 
good  fiction,  until  you  have  learned  to  design  a  pattern  of  writ- 
ing with  beauty,  and  put  it  down  with  power. 

As  I  think  I  have  said  before,  one  of  the  first  points  I  look 
for  in  a  story  is  character  that  is  a  product  of  its  own  environ- 
ment. Dialogue  that  has  an  accent  is  not  enough  to  separate  one 
nation  from  another;  it  is  the  kind  of  person  that  is  expressed 
through  an  accent  that  is  significant.     The  dialogue  must  be 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  359 

born  in  the  soul;  otherwise  the  impression  given  is  irritatingly 
superficial  and  sometimes  absurd. 

So  you  see,  observation  is  not  enough  for  fiction  writing,  how- 
ever searching;  nor  experience,  however  varied;  nor  style,  how- 
ever distinguished.  There  must  be  power  to  discern  truth,  and 
imagination  to  fashion  for  it  a  garment  of  shining  loveliness.  I 
have  grown  to  believe  that  the  very  words  used  in  writing  should 
carry  a  weight  of  emotionalism.  It  is  not  enough  to  feel  drama 
or  to  talk  about  drama  when  you  are  writing.  Drama  must 
pass  through  the  actual  words   and  drench  them  with  fervor. 

Mary  Fanton  Roberts. 

The    Touchstone. 
I  West  47th  Street, 
New  York  City. 


WESTERN  STORY  MAGAZINE 

WESTERN  STORY  MAGAZINE  is  a  weekly  publica- 
tion. It  is  therefore  a  large  fiction  market,  con- 
stantly in  need  of  short  stories  of  2,500  to  6,000  or  7,000  words, 
novelettes  of  12,000  or  15,000,  and  novels  of  25,000  words. 
Serials  should  run  from  36,000  to  100,000  words  in  length,  and 
break  up  approximately  in  about  12,000-word  installments. 

All  stories  for  IVcstern  Story  Magazine  must  deal  with  in- 
cidents in  the  West,  Canada,  Alaska.  If  possible,  they  must 
be  written  in  such  a  way  as  to  urge  readers  to  want  to  lead  a 
life  in  the  open.  While  many  readers  realize  that  conditions 
have  changed  in  the  West,  the  stories  should  be  written  so  that 
the  reader  who  knows  that  these  conditions  have  changed  will 
understand  that  what  the  author  means  is  that  such  and  such 
was  the  case  in  the  good  old  days,  and  that  on  the  other  hand 
the  reader  who  docs  not  know  that  conditions  have  changed 
will  assume  that  they  are  to-day  as  the  author  states. 

No  story  is  acceptable  for  IVestern  Story  Magazine  which 
contains  an  unpleasant  sex  element. 


F.  E.  Blackwell. 


Western  Story  Magazine. 
79  Seventh  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


36o  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 


THE  WOMAN'S  HOKIE  COMPANION 

FICTION    is    a  very   large  element   in   our   program.     We 
publish  not  less  than  five  short  stories  in  each  issue  and  not 
less  than  six  serials  a  year. 

These  are  the  requirements  which  make  a  fiction  manuscript 
available : 

It   must   tell   a  story. 

It  must  tell  it  well — that  is,  according  to  accepted  standards 
of  good  writing. 

The  story  must  be  worth  telling. 

The  theme  must  be  interesting  to  the  average  normal  human 
being. 

It  may  be  a  story  of  love,  mystery,  humor,  pathos,  childhood, 
youth,  old  age,  men,  women,  home  life,  business  life;  its  scene 
may  be  laid  anywhere  on  earth,  in  the  past,  present  or  future. 
It  may  have  plot  and  action,  or  merely  atmosphere.  It  may 
be  by  an  unknown  writer  or  by  the  most  famous.  We  merely 
want  to  be  convinced  that  a  great  number  of  our  readers  will 
enjoy  reading  it. 

Of  all  the  stories  the  Woman's  Home  Companion  published 
in  1920,  I  put  at  the  head  of  the  list,  "According  to  Ruskin," 
by  Harriet  Welles. 

It  answers  the  requirements  I  have  outlined.  It  tells  a  story, 
a  poignant  and  appealing  story.  It  tells  it  well,  with  skill,  di- 
rectness and  restraint,  and  with  power.  The  theme  is  that  of 
sacrifice,  one  that  has  held  its  appeal  for  hundreds  of  years,  a 
theme  around  which  many  of  the  greatest  stories  of  all  times 
have  been  written.     It  has  both  plot  and  atm.osphere. 

It  was  not  altogether  easy  to  choose  the  best  story  of  the 
year's  issues,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  to  choose  the  second  or 
third  in  rank.  But  there  are  several  that  I  wish  to  mention  as 
illustrative  of  what  we  consider  good  stories  and  the  kind  of 
fiction  we  like  to  publish. 

"The  Neighbor"  by  Katharine  Holland  Brown  is  a  difficult 
thing  well  done.  Written  with  less  skill  and  feeling  it  would 
lack  the  beauty  that  distinguishes  it.  It  is  a  type  of  story  that  is 
seldom  successful,  but  in  Miss  Brown's  skilful  hands  it  is  a 
masterly   piece   of   work. 

"Shooting  Stars"  is  one  of  Alice  Brown's  New  England  tales, 
well  told  and  absorbing  in  its  carefully-presented  setting  and 
its   analysis   of   character. 

"The  Boy  in  the  Corner"  by  M.  C.  L.  Pickthall  is  a  story  of 
the  West,  of  a  mining  town,  in  its  setting  and  atmosphere.     In 


WHY  EDITORS  BUY  361 

plot  it  is  a  study  in  spiritual  values  simply  and  dramatically 
related. 

Two  stories,  dealing  in  widely  different  ways  with  love  and 
poverty  in  the  relation  of  a  mother  to  a  young  daughter,  are 
"The  Genius"  by  Sophie  Kerr,  and  "A  Sweater  for  Mabel"  by 
Elsie  Singmaster.  They  are  both  admirable  examples  of  narra- 
tive, woven  around  plots  of  universal  interest. 

"The  Master  Passion"  by  Mary  Heaton  Vorse  is  a  piece  of 
work  that  is  distinguished  by  its  keen  realization  of  situations 
and  values  and  by  the  mingling  of  emotion  and  reason  which  the 
story  discloses. 

Of  lighter  tone  and  somewhat  slighter  structure  is  "Thurs- 
day and  the  King  and  Queen"  by  Theodora  DuBois.  This  is 
an  excellent  example  of  a  pleasing  humorous  story,  with  a  real 
plot  and  real  people,  plenty  of  incident  and  amusing  situations, 
the  kind  of  story  we  delight  in. 

"The  Torch"  by  Anna  Branson  Hillyard  is  an  example  of  a 
serious  and  sincere  story  dealing  with  one  of  the  problems  of 
present  day  young  people.  It  is  earnest  without  being  preachy, 
and  it  has  a  purpose  without  being  propaganda. 

"But  I  Knew  You'd  Understand"  by  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 
is  a  graphic  and  sympathetic  picture  of  young  married  life.  It 
has  a  variety  of  well-drawn  characters  and  an  atmosphere  that 
bears  the  sure  touch  of  reality. 

These  are  the  stories  that  I  feel  I  cannot  pass  over  without 
mention.  These  stories  come  up  to  our  requirements  for  a  good 
piece  of  fiction  and  in  every  case  they  offer  to  the  story-reader 
value  that  is  pressed  down  and   running  over. 

I  am  glad  to  have  had  the  opportunity  to  publish  these  stories 
and  I  am  happy  to  recommend  them  as  examples  of  good  con- 
temporary fiction. 

Gertrude  B.  Lane. 
Woman's  Home  Companion. 
381   Fourth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


YOUNG'S  MAGAZINE 

FOR  about  thirty  years  Young's  Magazine  has  been  purvey- 
ing fiction  for  the  entertainment  of  the  public.  It  has  many 
readers  and  some  contributors  of  twenty  years'  standing.  Of  its 
fellows — all-fiction  magazines  that  started  with  or  shortly  after 
it — what  remnant  is  left! 

It  is  good  philosophy,   as  well   as   common   sense,   that  such 


362  WHY  EDITORS  BUY 

survival  testifies  to  an  inhering  excellence  or  usefulness.  In  the 
case  of  Yoiin(/'s  Mar/azine  the  qr.ality  makinji  for  survival  is 
that  not  only  has  it  given  to  the  public  what  was  wanted — good 
stories,  but  it  has  helped  to  create  them;  it  has  been  the  arena 
where  many,  now  famous,  perfected  the  use  of  their  medium — 
where  some  have  learned  first  principles,  too — and  it  has  helped 
all   by  criticism   and   advice. 

Allowing  full  weight  to  mannrr — graces  of  style,  diction  and 
what  not — Young's  has  steadfastly  worked  from  the  standpoint 
that  ?natter  comes  first.  The  story's  the  thing;  what  the  reader 
wants.  This  insistence  on  "meat"  in  the  story — something 
cogent,  logical,  properly  articulated — has  won  for  the  magazine 
a  standing  and  a  place  with  writers  that  is  emphasized  by  its 
popular  success. 

Looking  back  over  the  index,  familiar  names  are  everywhere; 
selecting  haphazard:  Jeffery  Farnol,  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart, 
"Ouida,"  Charles  Hanson  Towne,  Marcel  Prevost,  Margaret 
Pedler,  Mrs.  Justin  H.  McCarthy,  Tom  Gallon,  Richard  Le 
Gallienne,  Dale  Drummond,  Berton  Braley,  Hildegarde  Haw- 
thorne, Rita  Weiman,  Harry  Kemp,  Doctor  Frank  Crane.  Oc- 
tavus  Roy  Cohen,  Nalbo  Hartley,  Reginald  Wright  Kauffman, 
Homer  Croy,  Mabel  Wagnalls,  Henry  Payson  Dowst,  Martha 
M.  Stanley,  William  Le  Queux,  Oliver  Sandys,  Nina  Wilcox 
Putnam,  Elizabeth  Jordan,  Grace  MacGowan  Cooke,  Julian 
Hawthorne,  Achmed  Abdullah,  Hapsburg  Liebe,  Jules  Eckert 
Goodman,  Roi  Cooper  Megrue,  Clarence  L.  Cullen,  Jeanne 
Judson,  Channing  Pollock,  Percival  Weil,  Louise  Winter,  Mar- 
tha Morton,  Temple  Bailey,  Gertrude  Brooke  Hamilton, 
Maude  Fulton. 

Take  it  how  you  will — whether  the  fact  be  welcome  or  not — 
"sex,"  as  it  is  called  (with  the  quotation  marks),  shares  with 
one  or  two  other  big  things  the  distinction  of  being  a  primal 
force  in  the  life  of  the  world.  It  is  real;  it  is  vital.  And  as 
Young's  Magazine  and  Breezy  Stories  want  vital  fiction,  they 
seek  stories  of  love  and  its  attendant  emotions  as  they  affect 
and  as  they  are  expressed  in  life  as  it  is  lived;  not  the  tenuous 
sentimentalism  of  the  "mushy"  love-story — moonshine  and 
bubbles,  beautiful  airy  nothings  that  touch  life  at  not  a  single 
point. 

Cashel  Pomeroy. 
Young^s  Magazine. 
Breezy  Stories. 

The  C.  H.  Young  PuBusmNG  Co.,  Inc., 
377  Fourth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


I 

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